The Edge of the Night
by blinkblink
Summary: The Great War brought the kin out of the shadows. Two decades later, they are expressely banned from all military organizations. But there's always an advantage to men who make their own luck, and the Allies can't afford to lose this war. Supernatural AU.
1. Prologue

October, 1941

There was an orange glow outside the wire. Far enough outside the camp that sound didn't carry back to the barracks, it shone silently, tall flames flickering in the night breeze. It was the only steady light in the darkness, a sole point of reference, a grisly reminder.

Newkirk stood in the front of the crowd gathered at the window, with his hand on LeBeau's shoulder. He watched the tiny flickering light, perfectly aware that every other man in the camp was doing the same. Perfectly aware of the hatred and disgust and malice lying thick and tarry in the air.

A single-paragraph paper notice had been pinned to each barrack's notice-board that afternoon, when the guards were still coming out of the cooler with their mops dripping red.

_The body of Corporal Erwin, RAF, will be disposed of tonight by fire. As a violator of the Geneva Protocol 1928, his enlistment in the RAF is null and void and his presence in this LuftStalag illegal. Due to these factors, he did not merit the protection of the Geneva Convention. His disposal was an entirely legal act of punishment, and of protection of the legitimate prisoners of this Stalag._

_Lt. Col. Karl Ackman_

Behind him, all around him, the men were murmuring, buzzing like wasps in a tin. He didn't have to listen to know what they were saying. _Serves the freak right. Goddamn blood-sucking monster. Too bad the Krauts caught him first. Too bad we can't watch him burn._

Newkirk tightened his grip on LeBeau's shoulder, and watched the flames flicker with a face which was to all observers entirely impassive.


	2. Chapter 1

_It is not gunfire I hear but a hunting horn_

Keith Douglas, "Aristocrats"

March, 1942

The camp was poorly constructed.

Colonel Robert E. Hogan, shot down three days ago near the Hammelburg oil refinery, gazed around the wide dirt compound and thin-walled barracks with apparent disinterest. Behind him stood Sergeant Kinchloe, the only other member of his crew to be so unluckily captured immediately after landing. He could only hope that the rest of his men, unknown to him and borrowed for this one-off mission, were already homeward bound. A truly _crazy_ mission, on London's part. The kind only a truly crazy officer accepted.

But looking around at this camp, laid out without any thought to anything but the most practical concepts – exacting military planning and tradition dictating straight rows and clean lines of sight – he began to feel more confident about the possibilities. From what Hogan's detail-oriented gaze picked up, there was absolutely no acknowledgement of the currents and rifts in the land, no attempt to use or block them. Even the crudest ever-present channels, easily doused and so strong that he could feel them even through his boots, were completely unaddressed. Even the standard use of building placement to create the simplest of defence wards had not been attempted. Whoever designed this camp had had their heads in the sand, or worked with a bluff certainty there would be no need for such precautions. Hogan suppressed a grin.

"_This_ way, Colonel," announced the fat sergeant who had met them on disembarking in the camp, gesturing. Like all POW camps, what Hogan had seen of the guards so far suggested the usual; they were men deemed too old, injured or incapable for the Front. Hogan allowed himself to be directed up the steps of the porch of the building with the dusty sign reading Kommandantur by the blimp-like sergeant, noting the windows and doorways under lazy eyelids as he did so. No sigils or wards, no even half-hearted mounting of salt-soaked ropes or iron bands, no charms nailed up. It reaffirmed what the camp's layout had already told him: no one here was expecting to deal with any kind of kin inside the wire.

Which was exactly why he and his XO had been selected.

The interior of the Kommandantur consisted of an outer and inner office; in the outer a gangling boy who looked barely old enough to drive was pecking unevenly at a typewriter. He glanced up as they entered, but the disinterest in his gaze suggested he was used to such interviews. Nowhere near twenty, and already more acquainted with the enemy than most of the men at the Front. Dressed in civilian clothes, he was likely someone's son, cousin or nephew. The fat sergeant ignored him, simply walked across the creaking floor with his rifle held in a lax grip and knocked at the inner office door, his back to the prisoners. Even with two armed guards behind them, it was extremely sloppy.

There was a muffled answer to the sergeant's knock, and the man opened the door and then stepped back to direct them in with his rifle. He used it more like a policeman directing traffic than a guard threatening potentially dangerous prisoners. Either the man was a trap, or he would be an extremely easy acquisition.

The Kommandant was an older man whose uniform proclaimed him to be a lieutenant colonel, small and crabbed with a bristling salt-and-pepper moustache and wire-frame glasses over sharp grey eyes. Yellow-stained fingertips and a twitching habit of licking his lips suggested he was an ardent smoker; his crooked posture and the deep lines etched on his face hinted at an old injury. The cold crackling aura surrounding him, like ice snapping under a heavy weight, told Hogan it wasn't a natural one.

As the Kommandant looked up, Hogan stiffened to attention and heard Kinch just behind him doing the same.

"Hogan, Colonel Robert E, US Army Air Corps. Serial number 328-29-710."

"Kinchloe, Sergeant James R, US Army Air Corps. Serial number 331-49-261."

The Kommandant nodded slowly, pale eyes pinning him with surprising gravity for a lieutenant colonel. But then no one without considerable strength of will could survive a curse strong enough to still be biting years later. Likely as not the man had run into it in the trenches of the last war, a gift from the Witch Squads.

"My name is Ackman," he said in gritty, heavily accented English. "You will be the ranking prisoner, Colonel. You are the only officer interned in this camp; perhaps you will find the men have forgotten how to live with officers." Hogan raised an eyebrow, but it seemed to be just a simple statement; Ackman continued on too soon to imply a threat, "You will find discipline strong here. See that your men do not step out of line. If you do not break regulations, we will all get along with greater ease. As we may all be here for several years, that seems desirable."

"I've heard some different reports, sir," quipped Hogan with a careless smile, letting it reach his eyes.

"I expect so," returned Ackman dryly, glancing down at the paperwork on his desk. Sharp, straightforward, and severe. There would be little manipulating this man, however bent his back was. Hogan's smile faded, only a ghost of it remaining while he descended into his previous blankness.

Ackman didn't look back up, just turned over a page. "Very well, Colonel, that is all. You will find the roster of your men in your office. You should know, only sergeant Schultz and myself speak your language."

The fat sergeant behind them snapped, or rather rolled, to attention.

"If you need to see me, you may put a request in through him. Dismissed." The lieutenant colonel looked up to salute his superior, possibly understanding the rankling irritation of being dismissed by an inferior in rank. Hogan returned the salute, swivelled, and marched out of the room.

* * *

They had come in knowing it would be a long time before they even had a chance to catch their breaths. Kinch knew his job well enough, though, and Hogan could trust him to be taking note of anything that needed attention while his superior began trying to sort out the state of the camp.

The first thing which became abundantly clear was that the camp had developed an island-nation mentality. Each barracks seemed to have worked out its own routine and order, none of them interacting with the others more than necessary. With no officer, no one man of a rank senior enough to greatly distinguish himself from the others, internal discipline across two hundred men of different nations and services had proven impossible. The poor sergeant who had been acting as senior POW was pathetically happy to see an officer, probably for the first time in his life, and vacated the luxurious privacy of his quarters with a big smile on his face.

The second thing which became clear as Hogan began the tedious but necessary process of interviewing his men, was that while their determination and resolution regarding the war held strong when tested, morale was almost non-existent. Locked in a stalag in the middle of Germany, far from the major highways, cities and borders, even temporary escape was nearly impossible while ultimate success was so far unheard of. It would be useless to simply announce the terms of the mission he had been saddled with; he would need results before any of the men would be willing to commit to anything more serious than tunnel-digging or guard-taming.

The third thing which came out a week into his tenancy as senior POW was that, confident as the lieutenant colonel apparently was in the Luftwaffe inspectors and questioners' ability to weed out undesirables, Hogan and Kinch weren't the only ones to slip through their net.

* * *

"How many?" asked Hogan, quite plainly, when Kinch came in at the end of the week and closed the door behind him with a significant look.

The sergeant grinned, and took a seat in the second chair Hogan had procured for his interviews. "I've counted five so far, with a possible sixth. Two of them in this barracks."

Hogan blinked. "I caught LeBeau – he always knows when you're behind him, or when anyone's coming. Must have ears and a nose like –"

"Like a wolf," agreed Kinch quietly. "The other's Newkirk. I'm not sure what's up with him, but that slight of hand isn't natural."

Hogan's lips crooked upwards. "He's cheating at cheating?"

"You could say that. That, and he's got an undue influence on the attitudes of the men around him. Could just be charisma, of course, but I think he might be giving them a bit of a tug. May not even know he's doing it, but the slight of hand's something else." Kinch paused, considering, then moved on. "In any case, he obviously got past both the RAF and the Luftwaffe interrogators; must be immune to the standard grab-bag. I understand how LeBeau got himself past the French – they would've been desperate enough to check a little less carefully then they could – but I have no idea how the Krauts missed him."

Hogan shrugged. "As long as they did, that's all that matters. They'll both come in handy; we'll get started with them right away. At least if they become inter-aware, we'll be able to trust them to keep their mouths shut about it. Who else?"

"Olson, barracks 9. I snuck out for a breath of air the other night, and I wasn't the only one. He was out, too. I saw him fade right into the side of the barracks when the patrol went by."

"Influence?" asked Hogan keenly.

"I'm guessing Dryad, but I could be wrong. It'll depend whether he can do it with anything other than wood. Then there's Kelly from 12, who smokes like a chimney and leaves his matches burning too long."

Hogan stiffened, eyes hardening. "Keep an eye on him." The last thing they needed was a Goddamn fire-starter going flame-happy.

"Already am," replied Kinch dryly, then went on in his reporting voice, "And Williams, 18, feels wrong. Don't know why, I haven't seen anything suspicious. But it's there all the same."

Hogan nodded. "Alright. Keep looking." He tapped his fingers on the table. "None of them're Drinkers, did you notice?"

"I doubt they could get by on this diet, sir. They'd have snapped long before now, with catastrophic consequences. Even LeBeau must have a hard time on boiled meat twice weekly. And even if they managed to find or Influence a friend, with this many guys living together, no way could they keep that secret for long. And God help any man caught with – caught like that," finished Kinch, glancing over his shoulder at the door behind him.

Hogan didn't have to nod; they both knew exactly what the consequences of soldiers being labelled kin were. Knew it didn't matter which side caught them. Their own men would tear them to pieces just as readily as the enemy. Probably along with the poor bastard caught with teeth in his throat, given average ignorance relating to anything inhuman.

"The second thing we'll do is get them transferred to this barracks." Hogan tapped his fingers on the desk thoughtfully.

"What's the first, sir?"

"Get my box off the truck, will you? It's under the bench right up against the passenger side where I was sitting. Don't look, just feel for it. I think we've waited long enough. It's time to get rid of Ackman."

Kinch grinned conspiratorially. "Yes, sir."

* * *

LeBeau, broom in hand, stopped in the middle of sweeping up the empty mess hall to glance across a table at Newkirk, wiping the table. "_Et bien_, what do you think of the new colonel?" he asked after glancing around, leaning forward on the end of the broom handle.

Newkirk looked up at him without stopping wiping. "Bright as a new penny and keen as bloody mustard. 'He'll have us lookin' for our arses by the end of the week. You heard him the other day nattering on about 'is tunnels and caches. As if we've just been sittin' on our 'ands for the past year. It'll end in the cooler for all of us, mark my words." Newkirk went back to cleaning, tone light-hearted but face shadowed. LeBeau didn't have to smell the concern to recognize it.

"It's his job to stop that," pointed out LeBeau, without moving.

Newkirk shrugged, didn't look up. "Sure. How many officers d'you know who'd stick their necks out for a pair of corporals? For a whole camp of 'em? 'He's safe so long as he only gives the orders, doesn't carry 'em out. Never gonna get caught red handed, is he?"

"You have no optimism."

"Maybe I'm just realistic. No one sticks his neck out for the likes of us 'cept ourselves, and all that means is more of us get the chop," repeated Newkirk stubbornly.

LeBeau opened his mouth to protest and then shut it again and began sweeping industriously. A second later there was a heavy creak on the floorboards outside the door, and a guard pushed it open and glanced in, watching them suspiciously for several seconds before closing it again.

"Maybe he can make a difference," said LeBeau quietly.

"I'll believe it when I see it."

* * *

Dinner was, as usual, a disgusting slop. Even on a Sunday, one of the two nights of the week meat was added into the cabbage and potatoes with a stingy hand, LeBeau hardly felt full. Hardly felt the gnawing hunger he had lived with for more than a year now abate. He would have escaped long ago, slipped out when the dogs were loosed at some alert or the other, if it hadn't been for Newkirk.

Left to himself the Brit would land himself in the cooler sooner rather than later, and it wouldn't take too many trips to break him entirely. To burden them with a second Erwin. LeBeau shuddered at the memory of the bright scent of blood, thick and vibrant in the air even from across the camp – even in his memory it was delicious, captivating, intoxicating. It had been Newkirk then who had dragged him into the latrines where even his keen nose couldn't pick out the scent, teeth aching and fingers clawing as he shuddered to fight disaster.

Newkirk, who was now standing beside him in front of the colonel in his tiny office. The man smelled of cigarettes and cologne – expensive, discriminating – and of confidence and enthusiasm. The kind of daring that the Americans were so famed for, the devil-may-care attitude that took most of Europe slightly askance and seemed to stick in Newkirk's throat. But he must know, as much as LeBeau did, that the attitude was real. The colonel was no coward faking bravery and ingenuity; he truly was what he seemed.

Behind him his XO Sergeant Kinchloe was making some sort of list on a pad of paper, attention apparently fully focused on it. It wasn't actually, of course; the man was curious and watchful under a strangely thick smell of dirt – had Hogan set even his XO to tunnelling?

But there was something else. LeBeau had been in the office before, when Hogan had brought him in for his turn at a ten minute interview a few days ago. There had been nothing unusual in the room then, nothing but what appeared to be there. Now, there was something else. Something had been brought in, something packed with a number of highly unusual things all crammed close together and hidden under the bed. LeBeau sniffed unobtrusively; there were several metals, the most familiar of which were copper and gold, as well as gunpowder, sulphur, wood, rosemary, thyme, willow herb, meadowsweet, and several other herbs he couldn't identify.

There was also, he picked out suddenly from the complex web of scents, pure silver. It was like reaching into a box of straw to find a razor. It drove the rest of the scents from his mind as instinctive terror pounded painful and jagged through his heart. Set all his instincts screaming at him: _get out, get out!_

He didn't move, but he smelled Newkirk's irritation and uncertainty shift abruptly to fear: the Brit had picked up on his own emotions. Still, he didn't scent any fear or suspicion from either Hogan or Kinchloe, and certainly neither of them was armed; it didn't _seem_ that they had been found out. Maybe Hogan just had expensive taste in possessions. Maybe it was just a coincidence that the only two kin in the camp had been called in for an interview, together. They _did_ spend most of their time together; it wasn't so farfetched.

Newkirk, probably coming to the same conclusion, came down from his spike of fear without ever having shown any evidence of it. LeBeau could feel his friend tugging gently at his own less easily-dispersed fear of the danger that was sitting in the hidden box, calming him.

"I have something I'd like the two of you to do," said Hogan without preamble, unaware of the entirely wordless dialogue going on between the men in front of him. "You're both on KP this week," he added, not quite a question but not just a statement either.

"Yes, sir," said Newkirk after a pause. And then, more boldly, "We should be there now, sir. The Krauts don't like us showin' up late."

"Then I'll make it short. I need you to pick up a few things for me."

Newkirk glanced at him, and LeBeau didn't need his nose to read Newkirk's thoughts: _I bloody told you so_.

"What kind of things?" asked LeBeau, before Newkirk could answer.

"Five tin cups, a cup of salt, some vinegar, and some wine. Doesn't matter what kind, although a good brand's always preferable," said Hogan, with an easy grin.

LeBeau fought to keep from starting. It didn't take a genius to see what was going on here, or at least what seemed to be. With the contents of the hidden box, and the ingredients Hogan had requested…

"A man can get in serious trouble for nickin' supplies from the kitchen, sir," said Newkirk, with a hard look. LeBeau bit his tongue to keep from snapping at the other corporal; Newkirk didn't know about the box. Was missing a crucial fact.

"I'll take care of that, corporal. Just bring me the things."

"That's an order then, sir?"

LeBeau closed his eyes. Only Newkirk would goad a new officer rather than try to get on his good side. _Especially_ one they shared a barrack with. And, if what he suspected was true, one who was considerably more dangerous than most.

"Only if you refuse it as a request," said the colonel, still with apparent good nature. It was more patience than either of them had expected from their experience of officers.

"We'll do it, sir," put in LeBeau, before Newkirk could work himself into more trouble.

"Good. You'd better get going then. Dismissed."

"Yes, sir." They saluted together and hurried out, LeBeau kicking Newkirk in the shin when he began to speak as soon as the door closed behind him. "Don't say anything. Just do what he wants."

"But –" Newkirk grabbed his coat, hastily shucked off when Hogan had asked to see them, LeBeau following suit.

"Do it. I'll tell you why later." Later, when they could get away from curious ears.

The compound wasn't really cold enough to warrant coats, but they were a habit, and more importantly they provided extra space in which to hide the items the colonel had asked them to steal.

Ostrowski and Sutherland were already there when they scrambled in, and gave them dirty looks before going back to their washing. LeBeau hurried to the other sink, Newkirk following him, and they began to wash and dry the plates and cups. He didn't see the cups disappear, but by the time they had finished the washing Newkirk was slightly more padded around the belly than his thin frame could account for, and smelled of tin.

LeBeau took care of the salt and vinegar while putting away the dried dishes, while Newkirk took up a mop and began to clean the floors. There was no alcohol kept in the mess kitchen; the Kommandant kept his wine somewhere in his quarters and his spirits in the liquor cabinet in his office, while the officer's club's bottles were locked in their own cabinet. It would have to wait for another day.

They finished the cleaning as quickly as possible, LeBeau's pockets inordinately heavy with the stolen goods which would earn him two weeks in the cooler if he were caught with them, and hurried back across the now-dark compound under escort.

The colonel was alone in his office when they entered, sitting behind his desk looking at a clipboard. He raised his dark head as they entered, glancing at them appraisingly. Newkirk kicked the door shut with his heel and strode forward to produce the five cups from his pockets with showy, if hurried, mannerisms. LeBeau, with no aspirations to the title of magician and the trouble that could cause, simply took his goods out of his pockets and thumped them down on the table.

"There's no wine, or any liquor, in the kitchen, sir," he said, as Hogan looked over the supplies. "The Kommandant keeps his in his office and quarters, the rest is locked in the officer's club."

"I see," mused Hogan.

"Well, if that's all, sir," said Newkirk discourteously, half-turning to leave. Hogan looked up with sharp eyes.

"But you're still one item short, corporal," he said in light protest, eyes entirely serious. Newkirk stared.

"You can't be serious, sir. Break into the officer's club, _and_ their liquor cabinet to grab you a bottle?"

LeBeau, well-acquainted enough with the other man to read _what's bloody wrong with water?_ on the tip of his tongue, stepped on Newkirk's toes before he could say it.

"I've heard glowing reports of your light touch with locks, corporal," said Hogan, ignoring Newkirk's attitude. "Mostly glowing with indignation, mind you, but glowing none the less. I'm sure it won't be any trouble for you."

"No trouble _lifting_ the stuff, sir. Only when the Kommandant throws me into the cooler for a bleedin' month when it's reported missing. You're not the only man in camp who knows about me light fingers, sir." Newkirk's tone was full of irritation and bluster. His scent was full of fear.

"Not too many risk-adverse men in war, corporal. But I can tell you if you get caught, I'll do my best to get you out again."

"Bloody swell. Sir."

Hogan narrowed his eyes. "I like my men to have opinions, corporal. I like them to share them with me, if they consider them to be valuable. You've shared, and I've given my orders. I want that wine. The sooner the better. Sergeant Kinchloe is ready to make a diversion for you, you can run out and get it tonight. That _is_ an order, corporal."

Newkirk twitched, but saluted all the same. "Yes, sir," he said, stiff as a board. Turned, and left. LeBeau glanced at Hogan; the colonel was watching Newkirk storm out with considering eyes. He almost immediately turned them on LeBeau, though, LeBeau catching sight of bright intelligence there before the colonel loosened into his former easy-going posture. There was no sign that he had ever been anything but loose and relaxed.

"Good work, corporal, I'll keep you in mind for all my future kitchen-raiding excursions."

"Yes, sir." LeBeau, recognising a dismissal when he saw it, saluted and slipped out.

* * *

Newkirk was standing by the window to the left of Hogan's quarters, Sergeant Kinchloe at the door with a couple of the men, when LeBeau emerged. He didn't even have time to step over to Newkirk, never mind warn him of his suspicions about Hogan, when a fight broke out by the door.

It was quite clearly staged, all shouting and stomping and no real punches or scuffling, never mind emotion. It brought the guards quickly enough, though, a pair of them slamming through the door with their guns held at the ready. The punches started flying then, wide and ineffective, as the men swept at each other in motions that gave off all the look of a fight without any of the feel of it. When LeBeau looked back to the window, Newkirk was gone.

The fight took nearly five minutes, and Hogan himself restraining his XO, to break up. LeBeau, uninterested but unwilling to give away the false nature of the conflict, stood at the edge of the ring and shouted with the rest of the men as the guards threatened them all with reduced rations and confinement. It hardly made a difference – with his lack of height he couldn't see past the men in front of him.

By the time order was restored and the guards marched out, the window was opening and Newkirk hopping back in with flushed cheeks and a sheen of sweat on his forehead. He had clearly sprinted straight back across the compound, and probably there as well. And now he stood with his spoils in his hand, triumphant and leery at the same time. Typical.

Hogan had returned to his quarters in order to demonstrate that everything was under control, and Newkirk disappeared inside. There were, at least, no raised voices. LeBeau finished changing for bed, going slow to wait for Newkirk. But when the Brit immerged he only gave LeBeau a quick, terse smile and walked past towards his own bunk.

He still smelled of fear, but also now of just a hint of satisfaction.

* * *

LeBeau had intended to pull Newkirk away after roll for a very necessary conversation about Hogan.

He didn't get the chance.

Ackman, as always, presided over roll call, standing by with his crooked back and walking stick and smelling as always of old malignity, of dead-air and crypt-dust, to receive Schultz' response of "All present." He received it as usual this morning, men already tensing in expectation of the dismissal that would come momentarily.

It didn't.

Ackman stood, crooked and bristling in the grey morning light, all cold fury and lemon-sour indignation. "I have been informed that there was a disturbance in this barrack last night, just before lights out. That alone would have been reason enough to cut your rations for two weeks. However, a more serious charge has been brought to me this morning. My aid, Lieutenant Lundt, has informed me that a bottle of wine has been stolen from the officer's club. It is clear that the brawling of last night was meant as a diversion for one of you to slip out and steal the wine. I am hereby reducing your rations by one quarter for two weeks; further, you are all confined to barracks for one week. The man responsible for the theft will receive one month in the cooler. Step forward."

LeBeau could feel Newkirk shivering beside him, although the man was staring forward with an impassive expression. He reeked of terror, thick and metallic as liquid tin. A week or even two cut off from all contact with others, from all life and emotion, would cut into him much worse than any other man in the camp. A month would quite simply kill him.

"Sir, I protest," said Hogan, tone serious and strict. There was something else going on there, though. He wasn't truly serious, or at least, he was being deceitful about his feelings. LeBeau blinked as he figured it out: the man was checking, calculating. Testing Ackman to see how much he could get away with. LeBeau wasn't sure whether he should be impressed or indignant. "You have no proof any of my men were responsible for this theft – if there even was one. Maybe the lieutenant made a mistake."

"There was no mistake. Was there, corporal?" Ackman turned abruptly to look at Newkirk, pale eyes sharp as a crisp winter sky. Newkirk had pulled his tricks often enough – too often – on the guards for them to be forgotten so easily. Only luck and LeBeau's quick nose had kept him from having other thefts pinned on him before now.

"Wasn't me, sir," whispered Newkirk.

"Really. Because the guards reported that _you_ did not participate in the brawl last night."

Newkirk licked his lips. The stupid fool was going to do it.

LeBeau stepped forward, clicking his heels. "I confess, sir. _C'étais moi – _I stole the wine." Beside him Newkirk stiffened. LeBeau projected confidence just as loud as he could; the last thing he needed was his decision prompting Newkirk to make the stupid self-sacrifice.

Ackman turned to him, lip curling. "You, corporal?"

LeBeau shrugged, not intimidated. "It's been more than a year since I last had a sip of wine; you aren't French, you wouldn't understand. Ask your guards – I'm sure they didn't see me at the brawl either." Of course they wouldn't have, all the wide British and American shoulders had been blocking their view.

"And where is the wine, then?"

"In the colonel's office. I hid it while he was breaking up the fight; I didn't think you would search there." As long as they didn't ask him _where_ in the colonel's office it was…

"Very well," said Ackman, eventually. "You will spend one month in the cooler. Colonel Hogan, I ask that you find the wine and bring it to me. The rest of you are confined to barracks. Dismissed." Ackman saluted, ignoring Hogan's protest, and walked away in his usual stiff gait.

Newkirk turned to him, all guilt and contrition and anger. "Louis –"

The guards grabbed him before there was time for more. He shrugged, smiling bitterly. "Looks like you were right," he muttered, glancing at the colonel who was watching him with dark eyes. It was some comfort, at least, that the Yank didn't look too pleased by it.

It was only when they threw him in the tiny cooler cell that he remembered he had forgotten to tell Newkirk he was almost sure Hogan was a sorcerer.

TBC


	3. Chapter 2

_If you are very valiant it is, I think, a god who gave you this gift._

Homer, _The Iliad__  
_

Hogan had only just poured out a cup of wine and re-corked the bottle when Newkirk stormed in, furious.

"You said you'd have the sentence commuted. Sir," he spat, dark eyes blazing.

Hogan straightened and stared at him coldly, one hand on the bottle's neck. "It's not your affair anymore, corporal."

The Brit had proved a disappointment. Hogan had expected Newkirk to step forward and take the cooler sentence just to spite him. That, he could have made use of. A hothead who did good work and took the consequences was worth a lot. A coward who passed his problems off on others was worse than useless, was potentially dangerous, a snitch in the making.

"LeBeau's just been thrown in the cooler for a month!"

"And you could have prevented it yourself." Hogan picked up the wine again, ignoring Newkirk who coloured angrily. "Dismissed, corporal."

Newkirk's eyes flashed to the bottle, and the cup on his desk. "Enjoy your wine, sir," he hissed, and slammed out.

Hogan ten heartbeats, forcing himself to relax his hold on the bottle, and then stepped out of his office.

* * *

The guard stationed outside barracks 2 let him pass, and he crossed the compound quickly, saluted by the occasional prisoner in the yard. The guards at the Kommandantur door again let him by, one of them preceding him into the building and knocking on the office door in front of him. There was a shout of assent from inside, and the guard pushed the door open and stepped in, standing back both to be out of the way and to give him a free shot at Hogan's back.

The Kommandant was sitting behind his desk, the head his cane barely visible over the edge of the desk. He looked up as Hogan walked in and put the bottle of wine down on a clear corner of the cheap surface.

"There's the wine, sir," he said contritely. "I apologize for my men; their behaviour was inexcusable."

Ackman made no answer, face unchanging. Hogan let the contrition fade.

"Still, I feel I must protest the sentence you've given LeBeau. You have to admit, the circumstances are a bit extreme. He's been drinking wine since he was a kid, used to it with every meal. To go a whole year without, while cleaning and dusting the liquor cabinet, must have been a huge temptation. I'm sure if you showed a little leniency –"

" – Your men would feel they could steal what they liked without fear. No, colonel, there is no negotiation for the crime of theft. The French corporal confessed to it, and he will spend a month in the cooler."

Hogan didn't miss the subtle insinuation: Ackman knew as well as he did that LeBeau hadn't stolen the wine.

The man was far too sharp to stay.

Hogan nodded, face impassive. "Alright, sir," he allowed. And then, eyes widening in surprise, "Oh, sir, you have a bit of lint on your shoulder, there –" Hogan leant across the desk to brush at the man's shoulder, even as Ackman repelled and the guard shouted and grabbed his shoulder to snap him backwards. Hogan stumbled, only barely keeping his balance, as the guard hauled him right across the room and shoved his gun into Hogan's face. Ackman rose, pale and strict.

"That was foolish, Colonel."

Hogan blinked, the picture of innocence. "Just wanted you to look presentable, sir," he protested. Ackman waved an irritated hand at the guard, who let go of Hogan's collar.

"Next time I advise you to allow me to remain as I am. That will be all." He saluted, and sat. Hogan returned the gesture, then let the guard shove him out of the room. With a strand of the lieutenant colonel's hair clasped tight in his fist.

Hogan stepped out into the bright morning sunshine, grinning.

* * *

Kinch was waiting in his quarters when he came back, face unreadable. Hogan closed the door behind him and pulled a piece of paper off the thin notepad on his desk, began folding it to make an envelope even as he glanced at his XO.

"What is it?"

Kinch shrugged. "Newkirk's sulking, sir. The men are ribbing him pretty bad. And, since we're confined to barracks, we can't tunnel. No way to get rid of the dirt."

"It's pretty irritating, knowing you could just _shuip _–" Hogan made a parting gesture with his hands, "and we'd have one ready-made…" he shrugged, putting the hair in the envelope.

"Gets to me sometimes too, sir," replied Kinch wryly. "About the lieutenant colonel...?"

"He refused to let LeBeau out early. Fortunately, that won't be a problem." Hogan held up the now-complete envelope, shaking it. Kinch nodded.

"What do you need?"

"About twenty minutes uninterrupted. Night would be best, but we can't chance anyone hearing me moving around. Besides there's no way to hide the light, either from the outside or –" Hogan glanced in the direction of the barracks. Hiding his nature from his own side was nothing new, but the absurdity of knowing his men would be just as eager as the Germans to destroy efforts in their own favour burned all the same. An anger long ago reduced to ashes, but still hot.

"Do you want to wait for lunch, sir?"

"No. Sooner we get him out of here, the better. No need to keep LeBeau in the cooler for longer than necessary, in any case," he added, lightly.

"You don't think you're pressing your luck, sir?" asked Kinch, smiling all the same.

Hogan spared him a look of mock-insult. "I didn't pact with Lady Luck for nothing. Get going; I'll call you when I need you."

"Yes, sir."

* * *

Kinch was just sitting down for a hand of poker when the colonel opened the door to shout for him. He stood with an apologetic shrug at the men and a disappointed glance at his cards, and turned to face his commander.

"Sir?"

"There's more dust in this office than a mausoleum. Get a mop and broom, will ya?" Hogan was leaning out of the doorway, door held mostly closed behind him.

"Yes, sir."

One of the men pointed him to the narrow janitorial locker standing in a corner; Kinch grabbed the mop, bucket, brush and pan and headed for the officer's quarters, pausing only to fill the bucket at the sink.

Hogan closed the door behind him, speaking in a deliberate, carrying tone as he did so. "We can move the bunk and start in that corner."

In fact, they moved the table to stand against the door, blocking any sudden access. The wine, still sitting in the tin cup on the desk's scarred surface, washed up high against the sides as they manhandled the furniture into place.

"Alright, sergeant, get started," he ordered in the same voice. Kinch put the bucket down and grabbed the mop handle, shaking it and setting the tin bucket clattering.

Hogan had hung a line of cord inside between two walls and draped both bunk blankets on it as if to be beaten. It just happened to pass closely before the window, blocking all lines of sight from outside. With the windows thus obscured, the only real light came from the single overhead bulb, casting a harsh light down directly on them and burning out shadows. The colonel dropped down beside the bed and grappled under it to come back out holding his hands stiffly in front of him as if he were carrying something. Kinch knew, having carried what looked like nothing but felt like a metal box across the compound yesterday before their confinement, what was in Hogan's hands.

The colonel put his burden down in a corner with a quiet clunk and ran his hands over it. In the blink of an eye a battered tin box appeared, sitting innocently on the plywood floor as though it had always been there.

There was a simple clasp which Hogan snapped open, flipping up the lid without ceremony. Kinch, curious despite himself about the box the colonel had managed to keep with him through capture, interrogation and assignment to the camp, rattled the mop again and watched closely.

Inside the box was a tray about half as deep as the four-inch sides. The tray had been carefully divided into a dozen compartments, each holding a small corked bottle nestled in its walls. Some, Kinch saw, held dried leaves or twigs, while others contained fine powder or pieces of metal. A few held contents which were entirely indistinguishable to him.

Hogan pulled out three bottles and put them on the floor. Then the tray came out to reveal an undivided bottom section. Kinch recognized a transistor, capacitor and crystal diode, the most difficult radio parts to jerry rig. Beside them were a few sticks of chalk, a roll of string and one of wire, and a short string of ebony beads. Hogan picked up a piece of chalk, turned, and began sketching in the middle of the floor.

Kinch had been assigned to Hogan nearly a year ago when his secret had leaked out to the colonel while the officer had been touring Olmstead. Whatever strings Hogan had pulled to manage the highly unusual assignment – a black sergeant serving under a white colonel had caused plenty of talk – Kinch didn't know. In a full year of service with the colonel he'd only spoken to him a handful of times about the bond they shared, and only once seen the colonel in action – and even then it had been both a minor and quick action.

As much as Kinch's image of Hogan was coloured by the colonel's nature, he rarely actually associated Hogan with active ability or practice – the colonel was in his mind much closer to human than he himself. Now, as he watched his commander sketching a sigil on the floor in quick, concise motions, he felt as though the rug had been pulled out from under him. Hogan was very definitely practiced. And, he could feel as power began to accumulate under the lines and flow up into his CO, very definitely not human.

A circle appeared out of the lines, complex and detailed, here and there augmented with a word or two of Latin or a symbol Kinch only vaguely recognized from old chemistry texts. At five points in the circle spaces had been left blank, as well as in the centre where the elliptical curves and straight lines, apparently arbitrary individually, drew together to create a detailed border around a perfectly circular space.

Kinch, used to the colonel's crisp, precise writing, could pick out hints of stylistic similarities in the clean perfection here. A clean perfectionist wasn't, he thought with a smile, the idea most probably associated with Hogan.

Hogan finished the last stroke and, while there was no perceptible event, somehow the sum of the lines was much more than the parts. The roiling energy Kinch had felt below the surface of the circle flattened out and died down, still present but now even and controlled. Hogan didn't even glance at it, just tossed the chalk back in the box and picked up the three bottles he'd drawn from the top layer.

"Hand me the cups. They're in the drawer," he nodded at the desk currently blocking the door.

Kinch dropped the mop, bucked clanging, and grabbed the cups Newkirk and LeBeau had thieved from the kitchen. He handed them to Hogan one at a time. In the first three, Hogan tipped a few grains of powder or a couple of dried leaves and placed them in specific circles.

"Now the wine. Then the vinegar, it's under the top mattress."

Kinch handed him down the wine, then reached over and dug the bottle of vinegar from where it was resting nestled between the corner slat and straw mattress of the top bunk and handed it down as well. Hogan poured enough to wet the bottom of the cup, clear and just slightly more viscous than water, and then returned it.

Five cups in place, Hogan stood and looked over the circle with a careful eye. Apparently satisfied, he stepped over to the head of his bunk and dug out the box of salt from under the lower mattress. Opening it, he bent low and poured out a thin trail of white grains, surrounding the outside of the chalk. Kinch gave the bucket a ringing kick.

Salt laid, Hogan grabbed the envelope, pulling the stiff flap open and picking out something minute from inside in a pinch-grip. He put whatever it was down in the centre of the circle and dropped to one knee. From inside his jacket he produced what looked like a paring knife with a black stone blade, dull as dusty flint. Although unusual, a blade only three inches long was not weighty when compared to the weapons any soldier was used to carrying. But Hogan held it like a loaded gun, with the awareness and respect anything dangerous commanded in a trained professional.

"I thought that was your safeguard, sir." Kinch indicated the box of salt. The purifying powers of salt had little effect on anything that wasn't undead, but he still shied away from it in large quantities.

Hogan glanced at it and then back at the ring around the salt, smiling humourlessly. "That just buys time. _This_ is for emergencies." He twisted the knife so that it gleamed duskily in the harsh light.

"You might want to get a bigger one, sir," suggested Kinch, eyeing the circle. What happened when sorcerers successfully unleashed Curses and summoned evils, everyone who had spoken to the Great War vets knew. Those shadowy, twisted horrors were a large part of the reason kin were killed without question. What happened when they _failed_ to do it correctly no one knew, because no one was ever left to ask.

Hogan shrugged, still grinning with a brittle light-heartedness. "My neck's not so deep."

He turned before Kinch found his voice. By the time he had, Hogan had rolled up his sleeve to press the edge of the blade against his naked arm up near the elbow.

Kinch would have guessed from looking at it that the blade was too dull to cut wax. But without applying any apparent pressure or slicing, blood welled up on either side of the black meridian and dripped down towards the sigil.

"Don't forget the corner, Sergeant," snapped Hogan abruptly, not turning.

Kinch, wincing with chagrin, grabbed the mop and rattled the bucket as he watched.

As the first drop of blood hit the floor, the edges of the circle began hissing, like fire sinking into wet wood. More drops pattered down, and after the fourth there was a crackling snap. Almost faster than the eye could follow, the white lines of the outer chalk ring flared into ember brightness. Like quick-fuse burning, the smokeless flare split from the large outside circle into each individual line and raced towards the centre, sizzling all the while. As the flash of fire and light passed, it left ash rather than chalk in its trail, the ash crumbling to dust and disappearing without a trace seconds later. As lines converged and reached the tin cups, the contents flared green and disappeared with puffs of emerald smoke.

Finally, with each individual line racing towards the centre, the dozen sparks twined into the middle. Kinch slammed the mop down into the bottom of the bucket as they met in a dark red glow, the empty inner circle glowing like a ruby in sunlight. Lying across the red like a snake sunning itself was a single black thread. As Kinch watched, both of its ends began glowing red, then gold, like steel wool thrown into a fire. Then, with a crackle, it burned suddenly to the middle in a shock of yellow and disappeared nearly faster than the eye could follow.

The red light faded to nothing, leaving only empty cups inside a rough salt circle on a clean floor.

Hogan stood stiffly and crossed to the bunk in one wide step, sitting down heavily. Beneath his dark hair, his face was grey. He waved his hand at the floor without looking at Kinch.

"Better give it a once-over, just for the look of things," he said gruffly.

Kinch, pursing his lips, pushed the wet mop across the floor in a few long swipes. He stacked up the empty cups and put them back in the desk drawer, likewise returning the salt to the end of the bunk.

"Well," said Hogan in a nearly steady voice. "That'll get rid of Ackman soon enough."

"Yes, sir," answered Kinch impassively.

"You don't agree?"

"I agree, sir."

Hogan glared. "Then don't start mother-henning. As soon as he's gone, we'll be able to start bringing in a better diet. That will solve any problems."

"And until then, sir?"

"Being confined to barracks isn't too strenuous."

"Steering a camp through a change in Kommandants is, sir," replied Kinch dryly, wringing the mop and wiping up some of the wetter patches and making sure all traces of salt were gone. "With respect, sir, you need –" he cut himself off. They both knew.

"Are you volunteering to run over to the mess and grab me a side of beef, Sergeant?" Hogan's tone and the blockade of rank showed his mood and opinion clear enough. Kinch, hands tightening on the mop's handle and eyes on the pallor of his CO's skin and the sweat along his hair line, ignored it.

"I don't think I need to go that far, sir."

"You can stow that talk right now," snapped Hogan, harshly, kid gloves suddenly gone. "There'll be absolutely none of that. You agreed to that when you signed on."

"But –"

"No buts, Sergeant. I'll manage. Close the box and give it to me on your way out."

Kinch clenched his jaw shut and did as he was ordered; by the time he had pulled the table back to its place the box was gone while Hogan's slacks were pressed flat in odd creases. He was staring through the wall when Kinch left, looking tired and old.

* * *

Kinch didn't slam out of Hogan's office. He didn't throw the cleaning supplies into the locker, and he didn't storm back to his bunk. Nevertheless, living in close quarters with 13 other men had long ago attuned the barracks' occupants to each others' moods, and Kinch was telegraphing his loud and clear. They left him alone.

Kinch wasn't a subscriber to the view that officers were put on this Earth to try the patience of enlisted men. Until now, Hogan's carefree flying in the face of danger and commonsense hadn't bothered him – he trusted the colonel's judgement and, more importantly, judged the colonel unusually capable of distinguishing the line between smart risks and pointless sacrifices.

This wasn't a smart risk.

Mostly though, beneath his simmering anger at his officer's decision, he was angry with himself for not foreseeing the issue. For not realising the toll of Cursing.

Any Drinker knew how bad the thirst could be; the weakness, the shakes, the cold that set like nails into the bones. The hunger that consumed like a slow fire until teeth ached and the mouth tasted of metal and every living body was nothing but a heart beat, tantalizing, intoxicating, hypnotizing. If it got that far, being caught drinking his XO's blood out of a cup would be a good outcome for Hogan. Even the most controlled Drinker would be driven by simple physical necessity to quench his thirst eventually, and when long-held control snapped it did so brittle as bone, without warning. The results were bodies on the floor, blood on the walls, and a lynching. Always.

And now… even if the Krauts shuffled a new Kommandant in, the odds of that happening _and _someone convincing him to lift the restriction on the barracks soon enough to allow them to lift some raw meat from the mess for Hogan in the condition he was in were damn low.

Kinch blinked, slowly. Hogan wouldn't accept his offer, and with a cooler head Kinch began to appreciate it might be the right decision – it was incredibly dangerous in such an open, supervised environment, which was why entrenched Drinkers never made it long in the Forces.

Bringing in some meat to be cooked for the new colonel's Sunday meal, though…

Kinch's head snapped up. The men were mostly sitting around engaged in whatever hobbies they held; some knitting, some carving, some reading or writing or playing cards. Newkirk was sitting on his bunk, thumbing through a book and smoking with an unconscious scowl. The sergeant's eyes flitted to the window, then to his watch. Late in the afternoon now, the sky was darkening. His watch put the time as 4:45. Lights out at 9, men asleep by 11…

Thinking hard, Kinch picked up a magazine Sloan had lent him, and pretended to read.

* * *

That afternoon, a doctor's car arrived in camp.

* * *

Newkirk had shared his sleeping space for nearly his whole life. Had made the transition from family to air force base to prison barracks nearly seamlessly.

He still hated it. As volatile as emotions could be in the day, they were still predictable. In sleep, men rolled straight from joy to despair, from laughing to weeping. 13 men all doing so at the same time, completely independent of each other, was on an emotional level with being drawn and quartered. Nightly.

Newkirk was still lying awake in his bunk when he heard someone across the room rise. With the stove dark from lack of wood the room was pitch black, but his ears were sharp enough to track quiet feet moving across the floor boards towards him.

LeBeau was popular, but not popular enough for a night beating on his behalf, and in any case every man here recognized private choices when they saw them. He tensed anyway.

"Put on your shoes," whispered a soft voice beside his bunk. Whoever it was was full of stone-hard commitment and _almost_-quashed uncertainty.

"Not bloody likely," hissed Newkirk.

"That's an order, corporal."

There was only one sergeant in the barracks. Newkirk set his jaw and sat up, then swung himself down in slow, protesting movements. He found his boots and his coat and put them on. "We're going to the mess kitchen. If there are locks, bring picks."

Newkirk stared. And then, as he found his tongue – "_What are –_"

"Order, corporal," repeated Kinchloe, harshly. Newkirk, playing for time, shuffled to his foot locker for his picks. The sergeant's presence, as the only other man awake, was notably different from the others. Easy to grab. Newkirk, reaching out carefully, tweaked at his uncertainty and tugged gently at it. Took a simultaneous firmer hold in that headstrong certainty, and began dragging it down, weakening it –

"_Stop that_," hissed the sergeant sharply, grabbing his shoulder and shaking him once, hard. "Get your things and follow me."

Newkirk, seriously worried now, pried his picks from where they were stashed in the false lid of the footlocker and followed the sergeant's footsteps to the door.

Kinchloe opened it slightly, letting in a cold breeze and a gentle haze of ambient light. A second later he darted out. Newkirk stumbled and then took off after him, giving the door a push closed as he dashed after the taller man.

Probably, it was that the man was new, not yet used to the kind of frustration and depression that set in after time. That, or his bloody Yank blood had boiled the sense out of his brain. Being out at night came with an automatic month in the cooler, if the guards decided to catch you. They didn't have to. Sometimes, they saved time by shooting first.

Kinchloe ran straight across to the Kommandantur, slunk around in the shadows and then in another burst crossed over to the mess hall. He stopped under the stoop, moderately protected from the seeking glare of the searchlights, and motioned to the door. "Open it," he said, shortly.

Newkirk, desperate to be out of the open, didn't wait to be told twice. The lock didn't have to be a good one, few of the men had lock picks and fewer had any inclination to be shot. It sprang open in under twenty seconds, Newkirk hurrying in immediately. Kinchloe followed, closing the door behind him.

"The kitchen," he said quietly.

"What the bloody _hell_ is going on?" returned Newkirk, staring out the un-shuttered window at the spotlight's roaming line brushing over barracks 2.

"We're running an errand for the colonel." Kinchloe strode through the empty room to the doors at the end of it, twisting the knob with a rattling. "Open this door."

Newkirk paused to wait a searchlight sweep through the windows, then joined the sergeant. "No offense, mate, but your colonel needs to learn to make do with what he gets." Maybe it was a fluke. Maybe the man had been talking about something else. Maybe he had misheard.

"Probably by tomorrow, the Kommandant will be forced to go on leave for his health. Permanently. You don't have any cause to be complaining."

Newkirk's pick slipped in the lock with an ugly sound. Kinchloe was entirely serious. "Been looking into your crystal ball then, have you?" he asked lightly.

"No."

The lock clicked, and Newkirk pulled the door open. The sergeant strode into the darkness, Newkirk behind him. "Where is the refrigerator?"

"Left wall, past the sink."

Newkirk stood in the shadows by the door while the man went to look for the refrigerator, watching him as best he could in the darkness. Trying to figure out what the hell was going on.

There was a click as the refrigerator opened, and the sound of the man rummaging through it. Then another click, and footsteps. He had found what he wanted.

Newkirk, taking a deep breath, stepped in front of the door. "I want to know what's going on. All this running around in the middle of the bally night nicking kitchen supplies. The Kommandant. What you –" _What you said_.

"What's going on, corporal, is that the colonel and myself are here to make this camp useful. With some special skills. Skills that you and LeBeau both know about."

Newkirk tensed, narrowing his eyes. And then glanced at the sergeant's dark form. "What're you holding? What did you come here to take?"

Kinchloe handed him something cold wrapped in thick paper. Newkirk ran his fingers over the paper, then raised it to his nose. And picked up the unmistakable heady scent of raw meat.

Wine and vinegar, two different states of the same thing. Cups to hold them in. Salt, the most common protection readily available. Louis startling like he'd seen a ghost, and then insisting that Newkirk shut up until they could talk.

"He's bloody kin. You _both_ are," he whispered, remembering the sergeant's hand on his shoulder, the low warning in his ear.

"We _all three of us_ are," replied the sergeant flatly.

"I'm not going to rat you out," said Newkirk, reading between the lines, offended.

"Good. Let's all of us keep it that way."

"You don't trust me." He could have read it in the tone alone, if he'd chosen to.

"After LeBeau? Do you really need to ask?"

"That was complicated."

"Pretty clear from where I was standing." Kinchloe pushed past him, cold and distant. "Anyone asks, we came to get this for the colonel's Sunday dinner."

Newkirk shrugged. "Fine."

They crossed the hall, pausing once to press themselves against the walls as a spotlight streamed through the windows. At the door, Kinchloe's hand rattling the doorknob, Newkirk suddenly grabbed the man's shoulder.

"About LeBeau – get the colonel to have him released."

The sergeant paused, just another shadow in the night. "Or?"

"Or nothing. Except neither of us'll be part of whatever this 'usefulness' you're talking 'bout."

After a moment, Kinchloe relaxed, pushing Newkirk's hand off his shoulder. "I don't need to 'get him' to. The colonel keeps his promises. Now move."

And he was gone.

* * *

Kinch split from Newkirk when they returned to the barracks and slipped to the right towards Hogan's quarters. There was no lock on the door and the hinges were silent as he pushed it open. Still, as soon as he shut it behind him the colonel's voice rang out low and harsh, "If you're looking for a glass of water, you're in the wrong place soldier."

"It's just me, sir," replied Kinch. He heard Hogan sigh in the dark. "I brought you something. Thought you could use it." He tossed the package over to the bunk, reluctant to move around in the dark more than necessary.

There was a rustling of paper, and then a long silence. And then Hogan's voice, sharp as a shard of glass. "You shouldn't have done this, sergeant. Never mind the penalties: the suspicions alone could sink us."

"Officers have wanted meat for their dinners before this, sir," said Kinch staunchly.

"And men have been burned for less suspicious actions before this, Sergeant. We can't take any chances. Not on little things."

"Little things don't always stay little, sir. I think it was worth it."

"It doesn't matter what you think, Sergeant. This isn't to happen again. Understood?"

"Yes, sir." Kinch turned, hand on the cool doorknob.

"But – thanks, Kinch."

Kinch, smiling, slipped out into the barracks.

* * *

When they woke for bed check the next morning, Kommandant Ackman was already gone.

TBC


	4. Chapter 3

Notes: The next chapter may or may not be a bit late, since I'll be spending most of my energy on my help_japan offer starting this coming Friday. But I'll do my best for it not to be.

A couple of people have expressed confusion about what the heck is going on here. I recognize that world-creating draws a fine line between explaining everything in a huge exposition dump, and leaving the reader completely baffled. All I can say is I hope things grow clearer as we move through the fic. The expanded summary from my LJ (too long for this site's parameters), may help a tad: The Great War brought the kin out of the shadows when, launched into bloody warfare, they cut through entire regiments like scythes. Two decades later, they are expressly banned from all military organizations. But there's always an advantage to men who make their own luck, and the Allies can't afford to lose this war.

Someone asked about Hogan's serial number being different than the one often used in other fics. Basically, HH is so notorious for continuity errors between episodes that frankly I don't think it's worth it to try to be accurate about such a tiny detail when the show itself wasn't. I just don't have it in me to watch 6 seasons to see if the number listed on HHWiki is the only one Hogan gives (I suspect it isn't – Schultz has at least two and they only give one). But if you want, you can just pretend it's owing to the AU nature of this fic.

Thanks for reading.

* * *

_I set traps; I catch men_

Dorothy Sayers; Busman's Honeymoon; Jeremiah 5:26

The first thing Hogan did after dressing that morning was borrow a chocolate bar.

The second thing he did was tame a full-grown man.

The fat sergeant was, as before, the one to perform the bed check. He performed the task, like everything else, in a lazy and careless manner. It was only the presence of a much more vigilant pair of guards with scowls suggesting jumpy trigger-fingers that kept the men from jumping the sergeant.

Today, just after the two watchdogs filed out, Hogan sidled over to lean up against the door-side bunk, casual and friendly. He produced the chocolate bar and dangled it from the tips of two loose-jointed fingers.

"Sergeant Schultz, right?"

The sergeant turned, blue eyes widening at the sight of the paper-wrapped rectangle. "_Ja_ – I mean, yes. That is me, Schultz."

"Figured it wouldn't do any harm for us to get to know each other a bit, Sergeant. Like the lieutenant colonel said, we're gonna be in this together for a while."

"That is very true; the lieutenant colonel is a wise man. Such a pity, _such_ a pity about his health." Glancing around conspiratorially, Schultz plucked the candy bar from Hogan's hand and tucked it away in his pocket with a grin.

"Oh, is he sick?" asked Hogan, all innocent concern. Schultz plastered a frown onto his face.

"Didn't you hear, Colonel? He was taken very ill yesterday. He looked terrible, terr-i-ble yesterday evening! And this morning, _whoosh_, off to the hospital." Schultz illustrated the sentence with a sweep of his hand, shaking his head. "Such a pity," he said again, overacting his part. Hogan nodded in sympathy.

"Well, let me know if he recovers. Hey, maybe the guys could gather some flowers, or something. I think I saw some over on the east side of camp."

Schultz's eyes narrowed in belated suspicion. "Why would you do that, Colonel? You do not know the lieutenant colonel, _and_ he removed your rations and confined you to barracks."

"Just because it's a war, doesn't mean a man can't admire good organization in the enemy, Sergeant! Like he said, we're stuck with each other. Best to be friendly."

"That is a very nice sentiment, Colonel," said Schultz, softening immediately like butter left out in the sun. "I will tell you if he is to return."

"Thanks, Sergeant."

Schultz saluted, winked, and walked out.

Hogan counted to ten before turning slowly to walk over to the stove. Standing with his back to the door, he glanced around at the men. Most were reading or doing some small craftwork. Kinch was writing in a notebook. Newkirk was lying on his bunk, staring up at the ceiling.

Hogan cleared his throat, and waited for them to put down what it was they were doing.

"You all know that Ackman got taken out last night; Schultz says he's badly ill. Quite possibly he won't be coming back. If he doesn't the Krauts'll have to assign us a new kommandant – no way a lieutenant will cut it." Hogan knew nothing about Lundt, the lieutenant who had spotted the wine's absence so quickly, but it hardly mattered; a lieutenant didn't have the rank to command a camp this size, especially not one with an imprisoned officer. He dropped his voice, and to his side Kinch slipped off his bunk and hurried over to the door, opening it to keep watch.

"I'll tell you all frankly: this is a big opportunity for us. We've got one nearly tame guard already, and he's the only one who speaks English. Likely as not, we'll be getting a new kommandant and that means that we'll have the advantage. He'll be playing catch-up, and we'll be the ones setting the rules."

"So what, sir?" asked Perlin. "Mass escape? Our tunnels aren't nearly good enough for that, and a new kommandant won't interfere with the tower guards."

Hogan paused, saw Kinch turn to look at him out of the corner of his eye. "No," he said, after a minute. "Not escaping. In fact… almost the opposite."

Several of the men broke out muttering, shifted uncertainly on their bunks. "What then, sir?"

Hogan crossed his arms and looked around the room, long and slow. "I'll tell it to you straight, boys. I've been sent here by London to set up an operation. A tie-in with the local Underground. A station to get men fitted out to escape the country, and possibly to gather information to send back to London."

Someone whistled. Someone else hissed. Again, several men started muttering. Hogan let it go on a minute and then spoke again. "This is a big assignment. I can't run it alone, and I can't run it with just you. I need every single man in this camp to be on board with my – with _our –_ mission. Because as long as it's running, there can't be a single escape from this camp."

* * *

Kinch, from his station beside the door, listened to the colonel lay out his argument. The need for the new kommandant to be convinced he was absolutely in control, the need for them to have proof of never having left camp to protect them if someone talked, the need to have a perfect record to protect as many bumbling guards and officers as they could collect.

Then listened to the colonel shift gears seamlessly into _why_ they had to do this. Because they were soldiers, fighting for their countries. Because of their hopes, or beliefs, or the simple need to protect their homes and families. Because, although they might be behind barbed wire, they were still part of the war. Because he could read in their faces that they _would not lose_.

Back to the room, Kinch remembered his discussion with Hogan just before leaving for the mission. Remembered telling Hogan that, officially, the colonel had been chosen for his silver tongue. And remembered the colonel's reply. _Only silver?_

Only silver indeed. Kinch grinned, and listened to Hogan lay the foundations of their operation.

* * *

They spent their days planning. Two men volunteered that they weren't bad hands when it came to drafting, and were promptly set to drawing a detailed map of the camp. Another two had been outside the wire, one on escape and the other while being taken to the hospital in the windowed staff-car with appendicitis, and began to compile a map of the area as best they could to match with the printed materials Hogan had brought with him. Others were assigned to take the list of men in camp and add former professions, or to make lists of supplies kept in camp that could be appropriated for other uses. Newkirk, sullenly professing some slight knowledge in altering his handwriting when taxed, was ordered to begin perfecting his forging.

Kinch spent his time drawing diagrams for the radio set which would have to be built, and listing the components required. Hogan locked himself in his room for hours at a time and came out looking, if nor worn, at least a little taxed.

By the third day they had a tunnel system planned, including digging order; a map of the immediate mile outside the camp and more in some directions; a host of men with useful talents who could be roped in to the operation as soon as their containment was lifted; a list of where useful equipment was waiting to be liberated; and a man who could now duplicate every signature in the barracks, if he would agree to do it.

On the fourth day, a black staff car rolled into camp, flags whipping in the breeze. As the men watched from the windows and door, Schultz and Lundt paraded out to meet the man who stepped out of the car. A tall, thin, strutting colonel. With a riding crop. And a monocle.

Only Kinch saw Hogan smile in success.

* * *

"And I will need a phone line put in to the outer office. Really, I can't imagine how Ackman managed without it."

"Well, s-sir, the lieutenant colonel was always, was always just very plain, sir, and I don't think he really… never really seemed to care, sir, if you know what I mean…"

Klink looked around the gloomy office with distaste. Of course budgets were stretched, but really, all the whitewash was abominable. And then there was Ackman's furniture, barely holding together by the skin of its teeth. And this useless office boy he had picked up somewhere, who couldn't seem to finish his sentences.

"Yes, yes, very well. Just add it to the list. And some curtains; these roll-downs are completely uninspiring. The men must fear me, must respect me! No one fears a man with roll-down blinds." Seeing the boy's blank look, he sighed and waved his hand. "Just write it down. And then send in Lieutenant Lundt, I must begin reviewing the books."

Lundt hadn't seemed too bad, but he was the only one. The boy was useless, and the Master Sergeant was a complete blunderer, shaped like a blimp. The secret of how he managed to maintain that weight on a sergeant's pay could probably have earned him a promotion. Several, if General Burkhalter's orders on the absolute necessity of economizing were any indication. And as for the rest of the guards, not a brain cell between them. Klink sat down in Ackman's stiff chair, made a face, and adjusted the blotter in front of him.

There was a knock on the door.

"Come in." He looked up, expecting Lundt's square form. Instead the blimp sailed in, followed by an American colonel, cap in hand. Klink's face froze half-way to welcoming. "Sergeant, what are you doing here?"

"Colonel Hogan here asked to speak to you, Herr Kommandant."

"He can speak to me when I call for him," replied Klink peevishly. "Or are you not used to following regulations, Sergeant?"

"Oh no, sir. I mean, yes, sir, of course. It's just… he asked me, sir. I didn't like to say no. Not when I wasn't sure what you'd think, Herr Kommandant."

"He asked you," repeated Klink dryly. "And what does he want?"

Schultz turned to Hogan, and repeated the question in English, somewhat to Klink's surprise before he realised that of course the oaf must speak English if the colonel had spoken to him. He nudged his estimation of the man's usefulness up, slightly.

"I thought I should introduce myself as soon as possible. There's something important I have to talk to the colonel about," was the American's reply.

He was a good-looking man, this American. Young, dark hair, good face, in trim shape. Probably the typical charismatic devil-may-care American. A subdued British officer would have been preferable, Klink considered.

Schultz began to translate, and Klink waved in irritation. "No need, Sergeant, I speak English. You are…" he glanced down at the notes in front of him, "Colonel Hogan?"

"That's right, sir, Robert E. Hogan, US Air Corps."

Klink nodded. "My name is Klink, Colonel Wilhelm Klink. I have been appointed as Kommandant to this camp."

"Might I ask what happened to the lieutenant colonel, sir?"

"He had a relapse of an old injury. He has been confined to hospital, indefinitely."

"That's too bad, sir," said the American, all sympathy and contrition. Klink frowned.

"Why should you care? You have only been in this camp for…" he checked the papers. "A week. You hardly knew the lieutenant colonel."

"But surely you can know a man through his work, colonel. The men here are healthy and the camp is clean and well-kept. I appreciate that, and so do the men. I told Sergeant Schultz that they'd like to give him some flowers; could we give them to you later to bring to him?"

"Flowers? You want to give him _flowers_?" Klink blinked and adjusted his monocle to better survey the American. He still seemed perfectly sincere.

"Well, fruit's on ration. There _is_ a war on you know, Colonel."

"Yes, I was aware of that, Colonel Hogan. However I was beginning to wonder whether _you_ had noticed."

"Of course, sir. Our barracks at home have a lot fewer termites. But what's the point in getting upset? We're here for the rest of the war; why should we fight? Better to get along."

Klink rounded his desk slowly, excitement running through him. He had never expected to have such a prize in a head POW.

"That's right, Colonel Hogan. I'm very pleased you see things that way. But I doubt your men do. You must know that, as the head of the Escape Committee."

Hogan sighed. "You know, I'm embarrassed to say you're right, Colonel. We've had two requests for escape submitted since I came! But don't worry about that, I talked them out of it."

"You _talked them out of it?_" Klink, hearing the shock in his own voice, straightened and backed off, clearing his throat. "I mean, of course you did. But, er… _why_ did you?"

"It's just stupid, sir. You must know the escape statistics. Hardly any men ever successfully break out of a camp, and if they do they almost never make it out of Germany. Besides, we have no supplies to offer them, no training in German or maps or anything. They could be caught – or worse – shot and killed! And if they _are_ caught again, they might end up in a much tough – er – less well organized camp. It's to their benefit to stay here. And I intend to make them all see it. I don't want to see any escapes from this camp, sir."

Klink could feel the grin trying to spread itself across his face. He turned swiftly, and pretended to look out the window. "That's very … noble of you, Colonel Hogan. Yes, very commendable. You have a very astute grasp of the situation."

"Thank you, sir, I try."

"You know, I think we may get along very well indeed. We have very similar aims, after all. All we want, the two of us, is the safest and most secure camp possible. I think we can work together to ensure that."

"I'm certainly willing to do my part, sir. But…"

Klink, scenting a catch, turned. "But?"

"Well, like I said sir, I'm very willing. But the men are a different story. They've all had it beaten into them that it's their duty to escape, no matter what. It could be a bit difficult for me to convince them that they shouldn't try."

"Yes, yes, I can see that." Klink nodded thoughtfully, tapping his fingers on his desk.

"I thought, sir, maybe we could give them a little incentive."

_Ahah!_ Klink looked up sharply, eyes narrowing. "Are you trying to suggest I _bribe_ the men, Colonel?"

The American blinked in surprised, obviously shocked. "Colonel Klink! Of course not. I would never suggest you betray your principles. No, I was thinking more along the lines of fair trade."

"Fair trade?"

"Right, sir. You show them that if they behave, their punishments will be reduced. If they don't try to escape, they can expect reduced sentences on other less serious offences like showing up late for roll-call or doing a less thorough cleaning."

"That seems reasonable, although of course any more severe offences would still be punished in full."

"Of course, sir."

"And you would be willing to suggest this… trade…. to your men?" asked Klink, trying to keep the suspicion out of his voice.

"Absolutely, sir. I've already pitched it to my barracks, just to test the waters, and they're all for it. There's just one thing that might really help matters along."

"And what is that?"

"There's a prisoner in the cooler for a month, LeBeau. If you let him out, it would show the men fair play. After all, they've already agreed not to go ahead with the two escape attempts they had planned for this week."

Klink flipped through the piles of paper on his desk, trying to find the cooler roster. "LeBeau, LeBeau…"

"Corporal Louis LeBeau," put in Colonel Hogan helpfully. "He was sentenced four days ago for playing a prank on Lieutenant Lundt."

"A prank?"

"Yes, sir. I respected lieutenant colonel Ackman, sir, but frankly I was beginning to worry that he might be losing his sense of proportion a bit. I mean, a month is a long time, sir. Especially since LeBeau didn't try to escape, or attack a guard, or do anything disruptive at all, sir."

"I see. I see. Yes. A sign of good faith, eh?"

"Exactly, sir. I think I can guarantee that if you let LeBeau out, the men will agree not to escape. You could have the only camp in Germany with no escapes, sir. It would be a real feather in your cap."

"No escapes… The only _really_ secure camp in Germany. No. In all the Reich." Klink stared into the distance, picturing it. The reports from other camps were certainly disgraceful enough. Attempts made monthly, and successful ones several times a year.

"It'd certainly get you into old Comb-Face's good books." Hogan indicated the picture of the Fuhrer on the wall.

"Colonel! That is our Fuhrer!"

"Yes, sir. Sorry." The American wilted appropriately; Klink nodded, satisfied.

"But I do agree with everything else you said. I will see that this man… LeBeau? is released. In return you will convince the men not to attempt to escape."

"Thank you, sir. You know, I think your coming to this camp could be the best thing that ever happened to it." He held out his hand; Klink shook it, smiling.

"Thank you for that kind sentiment, Colonel. I look forward to our future association."

* * *

LeBeau always found the cooler a dangerous temptation. It was the one place in camp that he could be assured privacy. It was also the coldest place in camp, and his uniform wasn't designed for it. It had been more than a year since he had been able to stretch his legs, to be the self the moonlight urged him towards. He felt it even through the barracks ceiling, pulling at him incessantly, dragging him towards the shape he _should_ be. Here, in the cooler, there was no one to see him if he changed. Being human all the time was like being forced to sit in a cage too small to stretch in, like being forced to wear blinders and stop up his ears and nose. After more than a year, it was getting dangerously untenable.

The desire to change was eating away at him now, making his skin itch and his fingers scratch at the rough walls. Just a minute, an _instant_, would be delicious, would be like standing after being forced to sit for _years_. Would be like opening his eyes to see colour instead of black and white. And he could do it. All he had to do was give in. All he had to do was _allow it_.

LeBeau relaxed his strained control just a smidgeon, felt his bones shifting eagerly –

– And a key turned in the lock.

He slammed down the transformation and scraped his fingers across his scalp in desperate frustration, smothering a cry. The door swung open to reveal a guard and, behind him, the new American colonel.

"Let's go, LeBeau," he said, thumbing over his shoulder. LeBeau, head still in his hands, looked up and tried to appear normal.

"Sir?"

"You're free. Sentence commuted."

"But, I – sir?" He sat up anyway, frustration melting into confusion. Hogan was radiating triumph and success, a tart earthy scent.

"Come on. I'll explain back at the barracks."

"Yes, sir." LeBeau stood and followed.

* * *

There were a surprising number of men milling about when he exited the cooler, and although most of them seemed to be doing something, LeBeau wasn't fooled. They were all watching him as he came out and crossed the compound behind Hogan.

They were welcomed into the barracks by Kennedy, who opened the door for them with a grin and then closed it behind them without leaving it. A watchdog. Glancing around the small room, the reason for him was apparent; the men had pulled up the floorboards under his bunk and were digging in the earth there under Kinch's direction. LeBeau opened his mouth to ask a question, and met Hogan's dark eyes.

"This way," he said, indicating his office. LeBeau shut his mouth and did as he was told. He noticed Newkirk sitting alone in a corner as he passed, reading a book. He was the only man in the barracks not in any way involved in the secret proceedings. He gave LeBeau a wan smile and half a wave; LeBeau walked by in confusion.

Inside the colonel's office, the officer closed the door behind them and then indicated one of the two chairs in the room. LeBeau took it and waited for Hogan to round the desk and seat himself.

"You're probably wondering what the heck's going on here," said Hogan, smiling.

"Well, yes, sir. Why was I released?"

"Show of good faith. The new colonel released you on the condition that no one escape from this camp."

"_Quois?_" LeBeau stood up, and Hogan's eyes flashed. The carefree joker disappeared for an instant, to be replaced by steel, and LeBeau tensed in reaction.

"Sit down, soldier. I'm not crazy, or a collaborator." He waited for LeBeau to sit before continuing in a quieter tone. "You saw the work in the barracks. We're starting an operation in this camp. A sort of aid station for escapees and persons of interest. I was sent here by London to get it off the ground, and keep it running under the Krauts' noses. And I think you could probably help with that."

"Me, sir?"

Hogan gave him a brief smile. "I know, LeBeau. I know that you know exactly where in this room I keep my silver, and I know what would happen if I sent you out tomorrow night." Tomorrow, when the moon would be full. LeBeau tensed, but said nothing. "And I know you probably know what I am, and why I had you and Newkirk fetch what you did."

He nodded, slowly. "_Oui_,_ colonel_, I know it." _Sorcerer_. A man who had made a pledge with something not of this world. A man who was human once, but never would be again.

"Fine. I can tell you, I was sent here because of my special talents. As was Sergeant Kinch. And we could particularly use a man like you, especially since you can obviously keep yourself under control."

"I would not be here if I couldn't." He would be a second scorch mark on the other side of the fence.

Hogan ignored his words. "What I want to know is: are you willing to help us? The rest of the men in this camp are considering it; they know the proposition, and they know your release was a show of good faith. Many have already agreed. Nearly all the men in this barracks have."

"Except Newkirk."

A frown flashed across Hogan's face; his scent said it far more clearly: disappointment, distaste. LeBeau felt his hackles raising.

"It is not what you think," he said, before Hogan could speak, pressing his luck with the officer. "You think he is a coward, he lets others take the fall for him? He is untrustworthy? He isn't. It is not my secret to tell, but just as I could not stand to pick up what is under that bed," he nodded to the shadows, the scent of silver distractingly clear, "he could not stand to be in the cooler for a month. He has risked himself to save my life before. I did not hesitate to spend a month in the cooler for his."

"He didn't agree to the proposition."

"You did not get me out of the cooler, sir. Not at once," added LeBeau. "Let me talk to him. You think I would be useful? You are right, sir, but so would he. And the men set store by him; he is a rebel, if he does not do something, they do not do it either. If he does, they do."

Hogan sighed. "Alright. Convince him if you can. But if you do, he had better have a good explanation for his conduct before he can be expected to be trusted with anything."

LeBeau stood, saluting stiffly. "_Oui, mon colonel_."

"Very well. Dismissed."

* * *

The best places to speak privately in the camp were out in the open where you could be sure no one was lurking around a corner or behind a door. LeBeau and Newkirk were both well equipped to know when they were being overheard, but they wandered out towards the dog kennels all the same. The growling German Shepherds were always left well alone by the men. Newkirk stuck his hands deep in his pockets and hunched his shoulders against the cold breeze. They walked back and forth a few yards from the fence, backs bent and eyes scanning the open ground around them.

"He got me out," said LeBeau, twitching his fingers to make the dogs stop watching him. They whined but turned away, nosing off towards their kennels. "He is showy, but maybe that is what it takes. I believe he could do what he says. He and Kinchloe, they have talents to recommend them."

"Don't know about the sergeant, but I don't trust anyone who makes bad bargains. You know almost half the lasting damage in the last war was done by him and his bally crew."

"Yes, and most of the other half was done by mine. You don't object to me."

"You didn't choose it. You really want to follow someone power-hungry enough to make a deal with the devil?"

"We don't know what he made a deal with, or why. Me, I am willing to follow someone able to turn the whole camp upside-down in one week. Someone who keeps his promises, and looks after his men. Besides, it will give us something to do. Or would you rather wait for another Erwin?" He looked towards the black patch on the other side of the wire.

Newkirk shuddered; the wind blew across the acrid scent of fear and anxiety.

LeBeau nodded, tucking his chin into his collar. "_Et bien_. It is not so much to ask."

There was a long silence. The dogs, scenting their nervousness, whined and shied away. "Kelly's getting uppity," said Newkirk, at last. "Playing with those goddamn matches all the time."

"Perhaps the Colonel can deal with that, too."

"If he can, _then_ maybe I'll think about joining up for this hare-brained scheme. 'Til then, I'm only in as deep as he orders me."

"Pierre…"

"Don't push it, Louis."

"Alright. But you'll go along with it?"

"I won't go _against_ it. That's the best you're getting for now. And don't try to tell me I should trust more."

LeBeau shook his head, and turned back towards the barracks. "No. But maybe you should judge less."

TBC


	5. Chapter 4

_Words are, of course, the most powerful drug used by mankind._

Rudyard Kipling

The tunnelling went quickly, to the surprise of the men. The dirt seemed almost to fall away under their makeshift shovels, while the walls remained surprisingly firm and packed. As their confidence rose, the plans expanded from a simple network of 2x2x2 tunnels to a system of corridors, interspaced with cavernous rooms. They buttressed the tunnels with bed slats and Red Cross boxes, but the walls were almost stone-firm even without the added support.

No one noticed that somehow Sergeant Kinchloe was always present whenever the digging was easiest and the walls firmest.

* * *

"How're you doing, Kinch?" asked Hogan, shuffling a pack of cards to create a simple noise barrier. He didn't dare to use true silencing scrollwork, not even under the window panes or door frames. Not yet, at least.

"It's easy work sir," replied the sergeant with a shrug, from his seat in front of the desk. "Just softening and propping, hardly any real moving at all. If we had a regular diet, it would be no problem at all."

"But?" Hogan looked up at his XO with sharp eyes, searching for the more evident signs of dangerous thirst. For twitching fingers or diluted pupils, for chewed lips or tense muscles. He saw nothing out of the ordinary, and relaxed slightly.

"But on boiled meat twice a week, it's a lot harder. I'll manage, sir, but it's tiring."

"I guess you won't be playing in the monthly football game, then," said Hogan dryly. Kinch smiled thinly in response.

"I don't think so, sir."

"Don't strain yourself. We have time. Improving the rations is my second priority."

"And the first, sir?"

"Organizing some new barracks assignments." He rested his elbows on his desk and leaned forward, speaking quietly. "We need Olson and Kelly moved here. They might be useful, and they're certainly a danger as long as they're isolated. Leave Williams for now, three's too many and we're not sure about him anyway. If the Krauts ask, Olson and Kelly are heading a second Escape Committee. Got it?"

Kinch nodded, heading for the door. "Yes, sir."

At his desk, Hogan straightened with a glint in his eye, smiling with sudden sharp humour. "And spread the word around. We don't want to make things too hard for them, now do we?"

* * *

Colonel Klink was studying some maps when a knock came at the door. He didn't bother to look up; probably just the idiot boy with some more misplaced filing. "Yes?"

"Herr Kommandant, Colonel Hogan wishes to see you," announced Schultz, as though he were a doorman. Klink sighed and looked up.

"Sergeant Schultz, I have told you, when I want to see Colonel Hogan I will – Colonel Hogan!" Klink broke off in irritation as the American burst in from behind Schultz's bulk, all smiles.

"Hi Kommandant, thanks for seeing me! I know you must be up to your eyes in it."

"In …" Klink blinked, then shook his head. "Never mind. Colonel Hogan, now is not –"

"See, it's just that I heard something." Hogan glanced around conspiratorially, and then lowered his voice, "About escapes."

"_Escapes?_" Klink rose from his desk, buoyed equally by anger and panic.

"Shh, not so loud, sir! They might hear you!" Hogan hurried over to the chair opposite Klink's desk and sat down uninvited. He leaned forward over the dark surface to whisper, all secrecy and urgency. Klink, trying to make sense of it all, sank back into his chair and leaned cautiously closer, eyeing the American with suspicion.

"You see, sir," began Hogan in a low, eager tone, "I thought things'd been going great. All the guys seemed to really understand about our deal. Most've them have been here a long time, sir, and they'd rather have a guarantee of an easier time than a slim possibility of escape. And your graciously releasing LeBeau really sealed the deal."

Klink nodded thoughtfully, "Uh huh, uh huh."

"So you can imagine my surprise, sir, when I found out this morning that Olson and Kelly have gone behind my – our – backs, and set up an escape committee! My own men!" Hogan's eyes were wide and betrayed, his tone suffused with shock.

Behind Hogan, Schultz clicked his tongue and shook his head like a house frau. "Terrible. Such naughty boys."

Klink glared at him. "No one asked your opinion, Sergeant! Hogan – what are you going to do about this? I cannot give uneven treatment to the prisoners. Go easy on those who colla – see reason, and come down harshly on those who don't? Impossible."

Hogan nodded seriously. "I completely agree, Colonel. See, the problem is that they're in barracks 12 and 17, and there are no real firm hands there. No one to teach 'em right from wrong, as it were. More importantly, no one to teach them just how beneficial a 'no escape' record could be to this camp."

"Yes, I can see that." Klink rested his chin in his hand, and pondered. "Perhaps, Colonel, if you were to have a talk with them?"

"Oh, I don't think that would be a good idea, sir. They'd probably just resist all the more if they thought I was trying to bring them around. No, it's got to be something more subtle. We've got to be able to influence them more gradually, while at the same time keeping an eye on them in case they try anything."

"Perhaps," suggested Schultz brightly, "you could move them into barracks 2?"

"Don't be a _dummkopf_, Schultz, how – no, wait. Wait." Klink narrowed his eyes, thinking hard. "Perhaps we _could_ move them. Yes. But what would be the reason?"

"Maybe _you_ could find out about the new Escape Committee, sir!" Hogan sat up suddenly, excited. "You could ask some of the men – they trust you now, you know. That gesture of good faith really went a long way."

"Yes, yes!" Klink leaned forward, savouring his brilliant planning. His excellent decisions were already bearing fruit. "I could tell Olson and Kelly why they were being moved, but say I am giving them a chance at a fresh start, and won't tell you about it."

Hogan looked appropriately impressed. "Brilliant, sir! You know, I'm really beginning to admire your intellect."

"Thank you, Colonel Hogan." Klink removed his monocle, gave it a polish, and then returned it. "You know, I really feel that since I came to Stalag 13, I have grown as a man."

The American nodded with obvious sincerity. "Oh, undoubtedly, sir."

* * *

Although slow to get rolling, like a rolling stone the operation built up speed as it went. When the foundational tunnel network was complete, Hogan began laying the groundwork for centres of activity in the growing caverns below the camp. They would eventually need the equivalent of a fully-functioning base – a tailor shop making civilian suits from blankets, a paper office making both identification papers and maps, a language centre teaching German and ready to translate any documents that might be borrowed from the Kommandantur.

The tricky business of establishing the heart of their operation – the radio – Hogan left to Kinch. A central space in the tunnels was allotted to it, and the equipment grew slowly over the weeks as men working in the office, mess and motor pool brought in scraps of metal and wire to build it.

* * *

Le Beau, somewhat to his surprise, had found himself included more and more in the colonel's planning sessions. That the man was trying to build up a strong lead team he understood, but the fact that he had chosen to form it entirely from kin was a choice LeBeau couldn't fathom. They each brought unique skills, but the risk was one only an inveterate gambler would take. But then, he was beginning to understand that the colonel was a man riding a stronger wave of luck than any he had ever known.

Apart from Hogan and Kinchloe, the lead team was slowly solidifying into himself, Newkirk and Olson. Newkirk, although not yet committed to the operation, was an essential component as the only forger in camp as well as a budding linguist. Olson, who spoke with trees like they were men, would be a perfect field operative – LeBeau had walked past bare barracks walls and scented Olson standing against them invisible to the eye. LeBeau was just less sure what possible use he himself could play, unless they needed to bribe Schultz with gourmet meals.

This evening Hogan was sitting on a box in the still-forming radio room, with a map spread over his knees. The flickering candles mounted in the hard dirt walls gave off barely enough light to make it legible.

"Kinch, how far past the wire is tunnel 1?" Hogan traced the long line representing the longest tunnel in the system, and the most vital.

"30 yards, sir."

"And how long until we can tunnel up to the surface?"

The sergeant put down a roll of wire he was busy coiling. "Well, sir, technically we have already; we've had to put in several small vents to keep the air circulating. But until we have a better idea of what sort of cover we're looking at in the woods, I don't want to start on an exit. If it's going to be seeing heavy use, it's got to be in the right place from the beginning. Ideally someone in the woods would choose it."

Next to LeBeau, Newkirk snorted. "And how're we gonna get out of the tunnel with no exit to build an exit?"

"We go out another way," replied Hogan, slowly, clearly only listening to Newkirk with half an ear. The men turned to watch him. He rolled up the map thoughtfully and handed it to Kinch.

"My briefing from London gave me the names of several members of the local Underground. One was Oskar Schnitzer."

LeBeau straightened; so did Olson and Newkirk.

"The ruddy vet? He brings those killers into camp every fortnight!"

"They are just doing their jobs," protested LeBeau. "Just like any of us was trained to do."

Newkirk gave him a dirty look, but didn't respond. Hogan, however, was watching him with a considering eye.

"LeBeau, how tame are the dogs, exactly?"

"They are extremely tame, sir," he said, and when both Olson and Newkirk began to protest, elaborated. "Perhaps tame is the wrong word. They are extremely well _trained_ – it just happens that they have been trained to attack those who they do not recognize as friends."

"So how dangerous would it be to take a ride with them, in the vet's truck?" asked Hogan, tone one of abstract curiosity. His scent was pure vivid excitement, though, and LeBeau straightened in response.

"For me, sir? Not at all."

"For you _and_ me, corporal." Hogan's tone was suddenly firm, no longer considering but decided. The other three men looked at him in surprise. LeBeau just grinned.

"If you can get us in, sir, I will take care of the rest."

* * *

Kinch stood at the corner of the barracks, ostensibly reading a very battered Ellery Queen novel but actually watching Schultz float, balloon-like, from POW to POW in the open compound. Some ignored him, some shook their heads, but several stopped to answer his questions. Between the colonel's natural charisma and Newkirk and LeBeau's knowledge of the men, their information web was spreading quickly.

Schultz was shooed away by a Canadian prisoner, and Kinch turned a page. A Brit answered his question, and he nodded with an expression of extreme concentration before seeing Kinch and heading over. Kinch looked casually back to the book.

"Sergeant Kinchloe. Sergeant!"

Kinch glanced up, blinking. "Oh, Schultz. What is it?"

"May I ask you a question?" the sergeant was whispering conspiratorially, standing beside him and leaning in while pretending to stare out at the compound. Kinch shrugged.

"Sure. Shoot."

"I am wondering if you have heard anything… _unusual_ about any of the prisoners."

Kinch adopted a blank expression. "Could you be a bit more specific, Schultz?"

Schultz leant in closer, bending like an oak in a storm. "About Olson and Kelly," he whispered. Kinch, playing along, narrowed his eyes.

"Olson and Kelly, huh? What've you heard?"

Schultz looked around. "That maybe they are thinking of _escaping_."

"Well, I wouldn't like anyone to think you heard it from me."

"Of course, of course. Your secret, I guard it with my life."

Kinch closed his book and turned to the big man. "Alright, Schultz, I'll trust you. I heard they're not too happy with the colonel's decision. They're setting up another Escape Committee."

"_I__knew__it_," declared Schultz, expression ferociously thoughtful. "Thank you, Kinchloe. That is very helpful."

"Remember, you didn't hear it from me."

"Ja, ja."

The sergeant nodded, and floated onwards. Kinch shook his head, and went back to his book.

* * *

"Schultz!" exclaimed Hogan, walking out of his office, as the sergeant slipped into the barracks with a furtive step that called out for more attention than his regular entrance. "Just the man I was looking for!" The barracks were empty, most of the men performing their allotted duties. Schultz, undeterred was heading straight for LeBeau's footlocker – any good chef always received the best bartered goods in exchange for his services.

Schultz startled, losing his balance and falling back against the bunk beside the door.

"Colonel Hogan! You startled me!"

"Sorry sergeant. How's your information collecting going?"

The guilty look disappeared from Schultz' face, to be replaced by deep satisfaction. "Colonel Hogan, you were _right_! They have created their own escape committee. _Such_ inconsiderate men. I will report them to the Kommandant."

"Great, Schultz, great. We all want to pull together, right?"

"That is right. You have a very nice idea, Colonel Hogan. Maybe with you here, this place will not be so bad."

Hogan smiled, crossing over to the sergeant. "Gee, thanks Schultz. Listen, I've got a favour to ask you."

Schultz' smile disappeared, replaced by wariness. "Ja, Colonel?"

"I think I know why you were in here." He ignored the sergeant's sudden blanching. "American chocolate really gets its hooks into you."

"Absolutely not, Colonel, I was looking for – for LeBeau, he –"

"Hey, it's no problem, Schultz. I understand. We're pals, right?" He slipped his hand into his pocket, and pulled out two chocolate bars. "It's no problem. We've got plenty."

Schultz eyes dropped from his to the paper-wrapped candy, following them as Hogan waved them back and forth. "I've got nothing against sharing, sergeant. I'm a pretty generous guy, after all. And it's a pretty small favour."

Schultz looked up sharply. "What what what?" he barked, sharp and staccato.

"You're in charge of signing off for the delivery of canteen supplies, right?"

"That's right," admitted Schultz, cautiously.

"And I bet, what with the Colonel being new and all, you haven't gotten around to showing him the backdated forms, right?"

"He has been very busy – all the security protocols, and with the wage forms, and his new secretary."

"Right, right. So when you do bring the forms in, it wouldn't be any trouble to make a little alteration, would it? Maybe drop the meat ration a few pounds? You won't get in any trouble – not your fault if the delivery was wrong. You don't even have to mention it at all."

"Oh, I don't know Colonel. That's a pretty big favour, altering records…" Schultz squirmed, eyes back on the prize.

Hogan produced another two chocolate bars from his pocket. "I don't need to say, sergeant, if you pull it off you can count on plenty more … little trades. I've got hundreds of men to pull on, you know. I'll always have supplies. Maybe even something a bit fancier – cologne, cigarettes, magazines. I'll leave it to your imagination."

Schultz reached for the chocolate hurriedly. "I'll see what I can do."

Hogan smiled widely. "Good man."

* * *

Klink sat back, turning thoughtfully through the pages of applicants for the position of camp secretary. Several very promising-looking young ladies, all with superior typing ability at the least. Interviews would surely be necessary, perhaps even several rounds depending on their other assets.

"Hey Schultz, is the Kommandant in? I've got something to talk to him about."

Klink looked up from the papers, frowning at the voices in the outer office. The American colonel again. Really, the man was incorrigible. At least without having invited him in –

"Thanks, I'll see myself in. Hi, Colonel." Hogan slammed right in, Schultz floundering behind him. "Sorry to barge in, but I just heard that Olson and Kelly are being transferred to my barracks. Boy, you work fast, sir!"

"Colonel, in future you will please refrain from entering my office without an invitation." Klink, glowering sternly, nevertheless allowed himself a smidgeon of humanity, "But thank you for your expression of confidence."

Hogan brightened right up appreciatively. "No problem! I think you really put an end to that plot. Very neatly done, sir."

"I trust you will be able to keep a closer eye on their activities from now on."

"You bet'cha, Kommandant. Actually, while I'm here, there's something else I wanted to mention. I didn't like to bother you with it when you arrived seeing as you were so busy and all, but we've been a bit behind on our rations here lately. The butcher's been low in his stocks, or something – Schultz has the forms. We've been several pounds under-ration on meat, and the guys are just a bit unhappy about it. They do a lot of hard work around the camp, plus daily exercise. A couple of weeks of extra to make up for it would really go a long way. They're really trying to go along with you, you know. Plenty of them told Schultz everything they knew about Olson and Kelly, didn't they sergeant?"

Schultz nodded. "That is right, Kommandant. They were very honest and respectful."

"You see, they're already trying to turn over new leaves. But it's hard, turning in your comrades. I think a little appreciation would really mean a lot to them. And they are owed it, anyway." Hogan held his hat to his chest, full of apparent sincerity.

"Is this true about the rationing, sergeant?"

"Yes, Kommandant. I have the forms in my office. We have been short 10 pounds on the orders for the past several weeks."

"Well, if that is true it is certainly poor management. If it is feasible to increase our order, I will see that it is done, Colonel."

"Thank you, Kommandant. The guys'll really appreciate it. I'll make sure they all know about it." Hogan looked at him with a thoughtful, assessing eye. "You know, you've got a really strategic mind."

"That, Hogan, is why I am the Kommandant, and you are the POW."

"Too true, sir. Too true."

Klink waved a generous hand. "Dismissed."

Hogan saluted, and left looking humble.


	6. Chapter 5

Notes: As always, a great thanks to those who took a moment to drop a review. A few people have been asking for more clarity on the verse here, which I am trying to provide without exposition dumps or unrealistic conversations. For those asking about Carter, he won't be showing up until the second fic of this series - next chapter will finish this one off. I do have a couple of one-shots from this verse with him as the central character over at my writing journal (link in my profile), _A Vital Secret_ and _The Heart of the Matter_. They will spoil you for the next fic, but on the other hand I have no idea when that'll be coming; probably not too soon.

* * *

_Keep your fears to yourself, but share your courage with others_.

RL Stevenson

The fire was almost to him now, roaring up so hot he could feel it scorching his skin. He was trapped, wrapped in a nest of wire that tightened as he struggled and screamed. The bright orange flames crackled like machine gun fire, like the most desperate dog fight he had ever seen. He tried to reach out to Hogan, standing nonchalantly on the other side of no man's land with his hands in his pockets, but the barbs cut his arms and hands. The colonel was saying something, but he couldn't hear it and the flames were coming, coming, coming –

Newkirk woke with a gasp, sitting up so fast he would have banged his head if he'd been in the lower bunk. He let his breath out in a slow, hissing breath and lay back down, already-cooling sweat prickling uncomfortably against his skin.

The rest of the men in the barracks were still asleep, to all appearances peaceful and calm. But they had been sleeping for hours and were now in the middle of their strongest dreams, seesawing from joy to despair, from happiness to terror in seconds in a chaotic, uncontrolled mess. Calm but fully awake, Newkirk pinched the bridge of his nose. He would never be able to get back to sleep with so many dreamers around. Before Hogan, he would have lain in his bunk for the rest of the night, waiting for dawn. But now there was another option.

Levering himself out of the bunk, he dropped soundlessly to the floor and, picking up his boots and coat from their place on the footlocker, crossed to the trunk by the table on stocking feet. He picked the lid up, tossed his things into the hole beneath, and climbed down into the tunnel.

One solitary candle burned at the entranceway, casting a weak buttery glow in the darkness. By its faint light Newkirk pulled on his coat and boots, and then lit another from the meagre supply sitting by the ladder. They were ugly, guttered things, the dredges of old candles melted and remelted many times over to save every drop of precious wax.

Finally alone, buffered from the rest of the men by a good three feet of solid earth, Newkirk felt the muscle tension he hardly even noticed any more fading. The emotional silence in the tunnels was luxurious; thick and velvety, it enfolded and pillowed his strained nerves like a feather eiderdown. Even the smell was restful, the damp earthy scent a change for the better after cramped quarters shared by men showering once a week.

Sheltering the candle from the faint breeze with one hand, Newkirk moved slowly through the tunnels. They were still under construction, but their shape was solidifying quickly. Already in the main tunnel men could walk with only a gentle stoop, and even in most offshoots they could walk upright rather than crawling, albeit with extremely hunched backs.

It was clear, though, that the biggest achievement of the system would eventually be the many cavernous rooms the men were now working to hollow out. Hogan had already shown them what had seemed at the time incredibly ambitious plans for printing rooms, a tailoring outfit, radio and translating space, and accommodation areas. Now that they were actually taking shape, Newkirk could sense a sort of bafflement moving through the men. No one was sure whose grasp of reality was accurate anymore: theirs, or the colonel who promised the obviously impossible and then delivered on it.

Although the tunnel system itself was well underway, it was as of yet populated only by Hogan's imagination and a very few spare odds and ends smuggled down by the men. A bunk would have been perfect, but currently the only furniture was a couple of small crates in the main cavern. Newkirk headed for the central cavern, and slowed as he approached it. The light shining from the entranceway told him what his heart already knew: he wasn't alone after all. And that whoever was already down here knew it as well – the sudden bright spike in apprehension was clear enough.

"Uh," he began, stepping into the doorway. And found himself with a knife at his throat, held by a hard-eyed Hogan. He raised his hands slowly. "Didn't mean to barge in on you, sir."

Hogan blinked, but lowered the knife immediately. "As you were, Corporal." The blade disappeared into a sheath tucked inside the colonel's belt in an action Newkirk's experienced eyes classified as clumsy self-taught sleight of hand. "What're you doing down here?"

"Couldn't sleep, sir. Thought I'd stretch my legs," answered Newkirk promptly. One glance behind the colonel showed his night's work clearly enough – a low footlocker covered with maps and plans, some half-drawn. The barracks, built from thin slats of timber, leaked light like a sieve. There was absolutely no chance of working after lights-out unless under a blanket tent.

Hogan sat back on one of the two small crates acting as chairs, the cheap wood bending under his weight, and gave Newkirk an appraising look. "We're probably overdue for a talk, Newkirk. I gather you still don't approve of my methods." He added a grin to make a half-joke of the statement; Newkirk ignored it.

"Don't know how to answer that, sir." Candle beginning to dribble hot wax on his fingers, Newkirk placed it in a temporary holder hammered into the cavern wall.

"Honestly would be a good start, Corporal. LeBeau does a lot of talking for you. I want to hear from you."

"Then, with all due respect sir, I'm not sure which methods you're referring to," said Newkirk flatly, pulling up the collar of his coat. There was a cool breeze coming in through the doorway behind him ruffling the back of his hair – he didn't mind, it meant they weren't in danger of suffocating.

Hogan opened his arms, gesturing to the empty space. "We're alone down here."

"I know that, sir," said Newkirk, with emphasis. Hogan nodded.

"I thought you might. Kinch tells me you've got your own unique talents. A man who read hearts would be helpful, Corporal. A man who controls them would be indispensable. So tell me: what is it you object to? You _know_ I'm being genuine."

And he was. Of course, given he was sure Newkirk could read his heart, he would have been a fool to try to lie. "You're giving me too much credit, sir. I may nudge, but control's out of my league. Me old mum could've done it, but I'm what LeBeau would call a mutt." He felt the soft slice of disappointment, and stiffened. "If you want my opinion anyway: I think your tactics are bloody dangerous, but I think your choice of men is bloody suicidal. Taking risks is one thing. Walking into the fire with your eyes wide open's another." He could still hear the flames crackling in his mind; whether they were from his dream, or a far more distant fire, he wasn't sure.

"There won't be any more Erwins on my watch, Newkirk," Hogan said, like a mind-reader. Newkirk scowled.

"Really, sir? You know the Krauts try any man they catch. I've no idea how LeBeau and your lot made it through the net the first time. You go through again, and you'll be caught out right away. LeBeau'll fail the first test, and you, Olson and Kinchloe'll be right behind. And then it'll be no good claiming you're a downed airman or an escaped prisoner; even if they believe you they'll still kill you right then and there. You're using the only men in camp with absolutely no immunity as your first line." Realised he was coming close to shouting at an officer, Newkirk took himself in hand. But Hogan projected none of the dry, cracked heat of offense. Just ice-smooth confidence.

"Do you know how Kinch and I made it through the trials?" he asked, eyes alight with curiosity.

"I can guess, sir," admitted Newkirk, reluctantly. "You're a man who made a deal." Even down here where they were irrefutably alone, he wouldn't say it aloud, just as he wouldn't name himself. It wasn't solely a matter of trust – they both knew he knew exactly what Hogan was. But more than two decades of murders, lynchings and mass purges of anyone who was even suspected of being kin brought its own kind of caution. A bone-deep need for secrecy that caused even the thought of speaking openly about himself to knot Newkirk's guts and dry his mouth.

Hogan nodded, although his appreciation of Newkirk's silence felt closer to accommodation than true understanding. But the Yanks had been late to the last war. They hadn't had four years of Witch Squads burning their own troops to greasy bones, unleashing plagues that left busy hamlets stinking of rotten flesh, and turning loyal men's hearts against them until they cut down their platoons in the night and slit their own throats when they saw what the dawn showed. And consequently, they hadn't experienced the same insatiable witch-hunting hysteria that followed.

"That's right, Corporal. If you get caught, you can count on me to see that you get through the trials just like we did."

"It's not banes that worry me, sir. It's what happens when your luck runs out."

Hogan bent forward to shuffle through the papers on the footlocker in front of him. He pulled from under them a pencil and very battered pack of cards, and drew the top one. Turning it, he showed it to Newkirk. Four of clubs. He flipped it over and scrawled something on its back. Then, drawing the knife from his belt he made a small cut on the back of his arm and pressed the face of the card down against the drop of blood welling up. He muttered something to it; there was a brief dim glow like a red match being struck and a smell like burning metal. Hogan flipped the card around again for Newkirk to see.

It was no longer the four of clubs. It now showed a wheel with odd signs around it, surrounded by several animals, in faded pastel colours. At the bottom was written, in an old cursive hand, _The Wheel of Fortune._

"You know what this is?"

"Tarot card. I've heard of 'em, sir. Never seen one. They disappeared pretty quick when the mob started showing up at the doors of the poor stupid biddies who played with 'em trying to talk to spirits."

Hogan shrugged, spinning the card between his fingers. "Like most occult material, they're only toys if you don't know what you're doing. But they are a handy way of revealing pacts. Only morons or madmen try to pact outside the Arcana, and the rare few who succeed only succeed briefly."

Hogan muttered something else and the card burst into bright white flame. He held it even as the fire licked down past his fingers, until the card disappeared entirely, and then showed his hand to Newkirk. There was no sign of burns. "You can take it from me: my luck isn't going to run out, Corporal."

"Yes, sir," said Newkirk, slowly, watching the last of the ash drift to the floor, accompanied now by a weak prickle of irritation from Hogan.

"Still don't trust me?"

Newkirk looked back up at him. "I'm starting to think I'd like to, sir. But trust isn't my long suit." He saluted, turned on his heel, and left.

* * *

The vet arrived early in the afternoon, guards waving his van into the compound after only a cursory glance at the front seats.

"Schnitzer has been bringing in the dogs every two weeks since I've been here. Maybe since the Stalag was set up. They don't bother to search him anymore." LeBeau, standing at Hogan's side in the crowd of POWs outside barracks 2, watched the van drive in with his arms crossed.

Hogan pushed off the wall, tipping his cap down. "Alright, it's up to you guys. You know what to do."

The men nodded.

"_Oui, mon colonel._"

"Yes, sir."

"You got it, Colonel."

Hogan walked off between the buildings, hands in his pockets and shoulders rounded, for all appearances just out for a stroll. He cut behind the first row of huts, out of sight of the main quad, and came up behind the last barrack. The dogs' enclosure stretched along the fence here for several yards, the farthest point in camp from the heavily-guarded front gates.

The white truck rolled up and stopped with a brief squeal of worn brakes, and the old veterinarian got out. At the other end of the compound, the group of men Hogan just left were getting rowdy, forming a circle and beginning to shout. Several guards were already hurrying over. Hogan stepped out from the shelter of the barracks and leant up against the truck's side.

"Oskar Schnitzer?"

Schnitzer startled and looked around.

"You are not to be speaking to me," he said in heavily accented English, stepping around Hogan and heading for the back of the truck.

"I have a sister in Paris." Hogan leant in as Schnitzer stopped and turned. "Her name is Claudette."

"The only Claudette I know keeps an alehouse," Schnitzer replied slowly, almost unwillingly.

"The White Hart." Hogan held up his hand as Schnitzer began to hurry closer. "There's no time for chatting. I need you to come back tonight and pick up two of us. You'll get a call – one of the dogs'll be sick. Bring out a replacement. We'll be waiting here."

Schnitzer shook his head. "_Nein_, it is too dangerous. The dogs are trained to attack all but certain men –"

"Don't worry about that – it's taken care of. Just make sure you come when you get the call. You've got a telephone?"

The old vet nodded warily; Hogan grinned.

"Good. My name's Hogan. Colonel Robert Hogan."

"But Colonel –"

"See you tonight. Oh, and one more thing. Bring a shovel." Hogan turned and stepped hurriedly around the truck without waiting for Schnitzer to voice his concerns, walking hurriedly in the opposite direction. Across the yard, the scuffle had broken up, men heading off in different directions. Hogan returned to his barracks, where Kinch and LeBeau were waiting playing catch.

"Well, sir?" asked Kinch, tossing him the ball.

"We're on. LeBeau?"

"Leave it to me, sir." LeBeau smiled, glancing towards the dogs. "Hans is on patrol tonight. He has always been a scaredy-cat."

* * *

"I still think it's completely balmy," said Newkirk, as he and LeBeau swept out the barracks. "Running around camp after lights out, escapin', and then coming back in? If you could manage _one_ without being caught it'd be a bloody miracle." He swept out a corner with resentful force, dust flying everywhere.

LeBeau didn't stop, sweeping a pile into his dust bin. "It is risky, but I think it is sound. And once we have established the exit, we will not have to do it again."

"Nah, we'll go on finding new ways to risk out skins instead."

"You say that, but you want it to work as much as me, Pierre." LeBeau tapped his nose, and Newkirk scowled at him.

"Even if I did, _believing _it could is another matter entirely."

LeBeau emptied out his pan in the bin and dusted off his hands. "You will see. It will work. From now on, we make our own successes. I only wish you could trust in that, as well."

"Yeah, well." Newkirk shrugged awkwardly under LeBeau's gaze – his sympathy was thick and cool as mist, but it couldn't disguise the vibrant tint of disappointment. "Just you be careful, alright? Look after yourself."

"That, always."

* * *

Hogan and LeBeau slipped down into the tunnel immediately after evening roll call. Hogan intended the system to eventually connect every building in camp, but so far it only accessed 6 barracks. They came up in Barracks 16, one down from the dog pens, and waited for the men there already watching the patrols to give the okay before sneaking out into the cold night. Hogan let LeBeau lead – his senses were far keener, and he knew the camp better.

They skirted 17, the last in the row, and stopped in the deep shadow of its far side.

"You wait here, sir." Without waiting for Hogan's reply, LeBeau hurried forward to the corner of the building closest to the dog pen. The dogs perked up and trotted over, yipping excitedly. "Shh," ordered the Frenchman severely, and they drooped.

Hogan watched as, using whispers and gestures, LeBeau separated one dog from the pack and had him lie down dejectedly in the dirt. He continued speaking to him for several minutes, although his voice was so quiet and harsh Hogan couldn't make out whether he was using words or just barks and growls. Finally, he crept back. The dog remained where it was, not moving.

"He will stay there until I let him up," whispered LeBeau. Hogan nodded, and they retreated to the cover of a water barrel.

The night air was cold and crisp against Hogan's skin, but he hardly felt it. He was warm with adrenaline, ready to act at the drop of a hat. Beside him LeBeau was breathing heavily, as if spoiling for a race.

The patrol arrived to switch its dogs a few minutes later. One was returned, and one of the two men called Hans to come. The dog whined, but didn't move, and the guard called him again before going in to pull at him. Hans whined but refused to stand, shying away and growling when the guard tried to force him.

Beside Hogan, LeBeau gave an almost inaudible growl. Hans yelped and rolled away, and Hogan could hear him breathing heavily in fear and confusion even from ten yards away.

The guard patted him gently, called to another dog, and left to meet his partner.

"What is wrong with the damn dog?" asked the other man, locking up.

"He must be ill. He's sweating hard, and panting like a bellows. His mouth is covered in foam. I will ask the Kommandant to call Schnitzer. He was fine yesterday – it may be something serious."

"Probably just bitten too many prisoners." They walked away laughing. Hogan went along to the end of the building, and watched them stop in at the Kommandantur. Then he returned to the water barrel, and settled down to wait.

* * *

Schnitzer arrived half an hour later, the van's weak headlights illuminating only a few yards of dark earth in front of it. The vet climbed out and, pulling out a torch, went to open the back. Hogan slipped through the shadows and met him there.

"I will bring Gretchen out, then you get in." He opened the door, and Hogan backed away as he grabbed the dog and led her out. Beside the fence, LeBeau was whispering to Hans. The dog stood now, and came over warily to the gate. LeBeau returned to Hogan, and they climbed into the back of the now-empty van. A minute later Schnitzer was pulling Hans over, the big dog straining at his leash. He held him outside the van with a command.

"Colonel, this is too dangerous. Even if I tell him not to attack, he may still –"

"Trust me, Oskar. Just put the dog in and let's go."

The vet shook his head, but led the dog into the van, still holding the leash. Hans jumped up easily, and lay down quietly on the floor beside them. Schnitzer stared for a moment, but then tossed the leash in and shut the door. LeBeau patted himself, and the dog came over to lick at his face.

"No problem, _mon colonel_. He will not touch you as long as you are with me." He stroked the big dog while it panted in his ear, utterly at ease despite the inch-long canines by his throat.

Schnitzer got in at the front with a metallic clatter and started the engine. "You should lie down. They never check the back, but they could see you through the windshield."

They did as he said, and the van trundled slowly for a moment before coming to a stop. The window creaked as Schnitzer rolled it down, a cold breeze sweeping into the van.

"How does he look, Herr Doktor?"

"Too early to tell. Could be nothing. I will bring him back with the next rotation, if he's recovered."

"Thank you. Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

The window creaked again, and the engine revved as the van carried on forwards – out of the camp, and onto the open road beyond.

Hogan waited a good minute before sitting up cautiously and looking out the front of the van. There were no lights visible, just a dirt road and trees.

"Stop as soon as we're out of sight of the camp, and we'll get out."

The vet looked over his shoulder, eyes wide. "Get out? Are you not escaping?"

"Unfortunately, no. We're going back in again. What can I say, the place has its charms." Glancing around, Hogan dropped the joking tone. "Did you bring the shovel?"

"_Ja_, it is wired beneath the truck. They do not check carefully anymore. But Colonel, you cannot seriously intend to tunnel _into_ the camp." The van rolled to a stop, and the engine cut out. Schnitzer turned in his seat, just a shadow in the darkness. Close beside him Hans whined quietly, and was shushed by LeBeau.

"You've been waiting for someone to be sent out to take charge of the local Underground network for months. Well, I'm it, and I'm setting up in the most convenient place in town. No one would ever suspect the most secure camp in Germany of being an Underground base. We'll be up and running within the month, ready to start ferrying men and supplies. You have a radio?"

"Well, I…" The vet trailed off, caught in a sudden attack of caution. Hogan interrupted in his best court-martial voice, before it could set in in full.

"Look Schnitzer, you've already broken two men out of camp; it's too late to bail now. Do you?"

There was a whisper of fabric, the vet bowing his head. "Yes. Low power, limited transmitting frequency."

"Good. My radioman is working on getting ours hooked up. We'll need to transmit long-distance eventually, but he should be able to jerry-rig something for the time being. How do we reach you?"

"I monitor the Underground frequency during designated times. I will remain on for fifteen minutes after the broadcast. My call sign is Peter Wolf."

Hogan didn't have to see it to know LeBeau was grinning in the darkness beside him, arms around the supposedly vicious German Shepherd.

"Great. We'll be in touch. Thanks for the ride." Hogan found the door handle and threw the heavy metal door outwards, jumping down.

"Wait," hissed Schnitzer. "What have you done to Hans?"

"Oh, that. Sorry, it's classified. But don't worry, he's fine. Coming, Corporal?" Hogan bent and, running his hand underneath the van, found the head of the shovel. It came free with a good hard pull, just as LeBeau jumped down to stand beside him.

"Classified? What? I don't understand, Colonel –"

"Better that you don't. Trust me." Hogan tipped his hat, and closed the door. "Come on, Corporal. We've got a tunnel to dig."

* * *

No one was sleeping. A third of barracks 2 were on shift below tonight, digging or constructing the underground workshops. The rest were lying in the dark of lights-out, waiting. Waiting, Newkirk knew, to find out whether their CO had just ditched them or was really the hero they all already believed him to be.

That Hogan had arranged for his own escape from the camp and carried it out easy as rolling out of a bunk had been simultaneously the most impressive thing he could have done, and the most dangerous. The doubt was thickening in the air with each hour that passed, congealing into an ugly festering mess.

Newkirk rolled over, searching for a more comfortable hollow in his lumpy mattress, when the footlocker hiding the tunnel entrance gave a rattling lurch. Anxiety suffused doubt in a roaring wave as the men from Barracks 2 scrambled up the ladder.

"Surprise bed-check," reported Olson to the room, panting. "Don't know why – maybe the Krauts are suspicious about the dog. They're starting at the other end of camp – I think the guys from 12 made it back up okay."

The first thing the Krauts would do on discovering two missing prisoners would be to loose the dogs in camp. The second would be to start searching outside the wire. Where they would find Hogan and LeBeau, and a partially complete tunnel connecting with rabbit warren under the camp.

Newkirk lit a match, and checked his watch in the flickering light. Four hours since lights out, three since Hogan and LeBeau escaped. He shook the flame dead, blinking in his sudden blindness.

"Where's Kinchloe?" He demanded of the room at large.

"Still in the tunnel," answered Henderson. "He's making sure everyone gets up – they might have to come up through the other barracks, fake an illegal meeting."

Halfway through Henderson's report, Newkirk had grabbed his clothes and started pulling them on. Now, in his shirt and trousers, he looked up.

"Great." Newkirk slammed his feet into his boots and tied them so fast the laces rope-burned his fingers. He grabbed his coat in one hand, and then latched onto Olson. "When he comes up, tell him I'm buying LeBeau and Hogan as much time as possible – and that ain't gonna be much. If the Krauts get here first, tell 'em I've done a runner. Get them out of here before they do a head count. Got it?"

"Newkirk –"

Ignoring him, Newkirk grabbed the door and stepped out into the cold night. Pulling his coat on as he ran, he slipped around the barracks and headed for the dog kennels. They could always be counted on to draw plenty of attention. He shook his head as he went, hands fisted tight in his pockets.

"'We make our own successes' my arse."

TBC


End file.
